Love is just a word to you
by ThistleAndWine
Summary: A suggestion from France makes Scotland realise he's tired of it. Tired of the endless balancing act, giving in time after time to keep hold of what is only a tiny fraction of what he really wants. He's not even sure it's what France wants, anyway. /-One sided Auld Alliance (mostly)-/
1. Chapter 1

**25th April, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

"Whit the _hell_?"

"It seems to be ze most elegant solution to our…" France waves one hand around, index and middle fingers pressing down tight against his thumb, as though the words he is searching for are hovering somewhere around his head and he's trying to catch hold of them. "Particular situation," he finishes, refolding his hands together and then resting them against his knee.

"Elegant, France? Bloody ridiculous is whit it is."

Scotland laughs, because, God, he hopes it's meant to be a joke. France doesn't join in, however, and his lips thin in the way Scotland knows is the opposite of amused. France is completely serious; a realisation that makes Scotland's breath catch at the back of his throat, choking off his laughter into a series of harsh, gasping coughs. He has known for a long time that France's views on their 'particular situation' are wildly divergent from his own, but sometimes it does still manage to surprise him just how far apart the two are.

France's nostrils flare slightly, blue eyes sharpening as his fine brows swoop down, inscribing thin lines between them. He's never liked to be laughed at, not like this, and Scotland feels slightly ashamed. Not aggrieved or angry, as he thinks he should be – because, really, did France actually think he'd be happy about the idea? – and probably would be, if it was anyone other than France. The feeling is there, but it's diffuse and distant, and, like a reflection on water, it just slips through his fingers as he tries to grab hold of it and drag it to the surface.

Silence follows, thick and heavy, and eventually Scotland throws out the first words to pass through his head, just to lift it. "Okay," he says, "Ah think Ah need a drink. Dae ye want anything?"

France's mouth turns up at the corners fractionally. "What have jou got?"

Scotland makes a quick mental inventory of his kitchen. There are four bottles of wine in his fridge – five quid for two at the offy round the corner; France would probably rather try and eat the bottles themselves before he drank anything that came out of them – a pint of milk, a six pack of Stella, and some flat Irn Bru which he hasn't got around to throwing out yet. He thinks he might have some coffee somewhere, but as he doesn't usually drink it himself, and most of his visitors don't either, it's probably clumped together and stuck to the bottom of the jar by now. Not that France likes instant coffee, anyway.

"Tea?" he suggests. He's fairly sure there are still a few bags of the fancy stuff France prefers left over from the last time he visited, lurking behind the PG Tips. Scotland never touches it himself: it smells fragrant and a little spicy, but tastes like pencil shavings steeped in dishwater.

France nods once, his smile widening. "Please."

Scotland removes himself to the kitchen, and starts making tea on autopilot, hands moving through the ritual of years without needing any input from his brain. Which is a blessing, as it gives him time to think away from France's distracting presence. He sits on the worktop as he waits for the kettle to boil, drumming his heels against the cupboard below, and quickly runs through the options available to him.

If he refuses France's suggestion, there's a very real possibility that he won't see the other nation for quite some time. Usually, France's flings last no more than a few weeks, but, every so often they will continue for months, or even years, and during that time, he gets so wrapped up in them, so focused and single-minded, that he has no time for Scotland at all.

If he accepts, then he will doubtless be able to continue seeing France – although, not as often as he'd like, but it's been a long, long time since that was anything other than the case – but… But, he doesn't really know Netherlands very well any more. He used to, back in the days when he actually took more of a part in world affairs – before he and Wales made the decision to step back and let England handle everything in their stead until such time as they had regained their independence – but he doesn't think they've spoken on more than a handful of occasions since the Second World War. It's certainly not enough to make him jump at the chance of sleeping with the guy.

He and France used to do this a lot, when they were together the first time around. Scotland's memories of those times are hazy, dimmed by time and deliberate distance, but he doesn't recall being particularly happy with the arrangement then, either. It's frustrating to realise just how little has changed in all those centuries; Scotland's still desperately trying to walk the tightrope between holding on too hard and just giving up and letting go. He has the feeling that he's started to sway too far in one direction lately, but he can't decide whether he should attempt to right himself or just let himself fall.

The click of the kettle switching itself off interrupts his train of thought, and he scrabbles down from the counter to fill the two mugs he's set out with boiling water. Shit or get off the pot, floats across the front of his mind as he pokes at the teabags with the handle of a spoon. It's what he's always wanted to say to England regarding his relationship with America but never has, because he and England don't talk about such things, and, even if they did, England probably wouldn't listen to anything Scotland has to say on the matter, anyway. It's good advice, he thinks, despite the fact that he's never been able to follow it himself. Over seven hundred years, and he has still never been able to bring himself to make a decision one way or the other when his hand hasn't been forced by circumstances outside his control.

He pours a splash of milk into his own tea, and then goes hunting for some lemon for France's. He finds a sad, wrinkled little thing at the back of his vegetable drawer that might once have been a lemon, but it's got such a thick coating of white, fibrous mould that it's hard to tell. He doubts France would be very impressed by the addition of a squirt of Jif, so he leaves it plain.

France seems satisfied, regardless, and his eyelids flutter shut momentarily as he inhales the steam rising from his mug after Scotland has handed it to him. "So, what do you think about my proposal, now that you've had some time to think about it," he asks.

He glances up at Scotland through his lashes, head cocked to one side, lips slightly parted, and… And shit, doesn't he know that Scotland finds it damn near impossible to refuse him anything when he looks at him like that? Possibly not, as Scotland has certainly never told him so. It always makes Scotland want to kiss him, but he won't; he never does.

Instead, he curls his hand around his own mug, and then takes a long draught from it in an attempt to refresh his suddenly dry mouth. "Ah want –" The words still feel brittle, and they crack apart as they leave his lips. He pauses, reorders his thoughts, and continues with: "Aye, sure, let's do it. If that's wiat ye want."

Those words, on the other hand, come out perfectly. Probably because he's had so much practice in saying them.


	2. Chapter 2

**9th May, 2009; Paris**

Now that he's getting to know him a little better again, Scotland has decided he doesn't like Netherlands very much nowadays, after all.

Scotland glares at him across the table as he stirs sugar into his coffee – if there's one thing that frustrates him about Paris, it's the lack of cafés which serve a decent cup of tea – finding more and more reasons to dislike him the longer he looks.

If he's honest, most of those reasons are simply the ways he's different to Scotland himself. Scotland doesn't know much about clothes, but even if Netherlands' aren't particularly fashionable, they fit him well, accentuating his long legs and slim form. Barring a brief spell of adolescent lankiness in the eleventh century, Scotland has been solidly built since he was a child, and he's always felt bulky and a little clumsy next to France. He doesn't know if his clothes accentuate anything, as his only considerations on picking them out are whether they're suitable for the weather and have been washed at some point in recent history. Netherlands' hair has also obviously been carefully styled, whereas Scotland's own hair is thick and stubborn, and defaults to 'just been dragged through a hedge' within an hour, whatever he tries to do with it.

Most of all, though, Scotland hates the way that he's captivated France's interest, stealing away all of his attention without apparently trying. The two of them are discussing some new up-and-coming artist Scotland's never heard of, leaving him with nothing better to do than stew, and glare, and distractedly splash droplets of coffee all over the café's pristine white tablecloth.

Scotland is no philistine, but he knows what he likes, and what he likes certainly isn't pickled cows, unmade beds, and the like. France has always captivated by the novel, however, by those who try to break the mould, be they artists, composers, musicians, or designers, and his eyes are shining with excitement, hands drawing random patterns in the air, seemingly incapable of staying still.

Finally, their conversation winds down, and France stretches languorously in his seat; his fingers lacing together and he extends his arms above his head. Netherlands follows the movement with hooded eyes which then rake across the full arc of France's body, and Scotland wants to lean across the table and punch him. Instead, he simply adds another sugar to his coffee, and tightens his fingers around the cup's handle to stop them from curling in towards his palm.

When he's settled himself again, France pushes up his shirt cuff and makes a show of checking his watch. "I zhink it's about time we headed back to my apartment." His voice has gone low and rich, and his eyes fix on Scotland for the first time in at least an hour, as he asks: "Are jou ready, _mon coeur_?"

Scotland grinds his teeth together so firmly that he's almost convinced they'll start to crack. The response is a knee-jerk one – he hates whenever France calls him something like that – but when he notices that Netherlands is also watching him with evident interest, it occurs to him that it might be in his best interests to foster the belief that they often use such terms of endearment with each other; casually, as if they're an old habit worn soft with years.

"Jist need tae finish ma coffee." Scotland repeats the words he wants to use a couple of times in his mind before he says them out loud, hoping that they will emerge sounding loose and natural. "_Mo chridhe_."

They don't; they sound stilted and as rusty with disuse as they actually are. France seems charmed, however, faint colour spreading across his cheeks as he smiles.

Scotland lowers his head in an attempt to hide the flush he can feel rushing to his own face, and hurriedly gulps down his coffee. It's cold, thick, and far too sweet, but he barely tastes it anyway.

* * *

**11th May, 2009; Paris, France**

Scotland stares down at his feet where they're propped up on France's coffee table, nudging aside some ugly objet d'art made from dark wood and twisted metal that's probably meant to be a profound statement on the human condition or something equally pretentious. He spots a hole in his left sock, at the tip of his big toe, and idly wonders whether he should finally just concede defeat and chuck them out, or give them to England to darn. He'd whinge and moan about the imposition, no doubt, but Scotland's not got the knack for the task, and England's rarely happier than when he's got a needle in his hand.

When he bores of contemplating the intricacies of sock maintenance, he risks another glance through the living room doorway towards the hall beyond. He immediately wishes he had made himself hold out a little longer, as Netherlands still hasn't finished the protracted process of taking his leave from France. One of his hands is low on France's back, curved fingers drawing deep furrows in the thin silk of France's shirt, and suddenly, in a white hot flash, Scotland's mind wipes clean of everything but the urge to yank that hand away; maybe break a couple of fingers for good measure, as well.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he breathes slowly and deeply, pushing down the feeling until it's little more than a dull buzz of irritation at the base of his skull, and then averts his eyes downwards again. He could probably do with replacing his jeans, too, he notes with a sort of desperate determination. They're frayed around the bottom, trailing bare threads, and thinning at the knees. He brushes his thumb back and forth across his thigh, and watches the fabric lighten fractionally and then darken again as he disturbs the nap. Lighten and darken, lighten and dar–

The apartment's front door slams shut, and the sound reverberates through Scotland's body, loosening the tension that he'd barely even noticed was pulling his muscles taut. He relaxes back in his seat, spine curving and hands falling open at his sides, and even manages to smile at France when he walks back into the living room.

The smile that France returns to him is wide and looks completely unaffected, something which even Scotland isn't used to seeing, given that France usually seems to choose the expressions he wears with as much care as he does his clothes, and typically with the same end in mind. It makes Scotland's heart jump a little, despite knowing its likely cause.

France's posture when he slumps down into an armchair, however, is a carefully-constructed study of louche exhaustion: head tipped back, a hand covering his eyes, and one leg hooked over the arm of the chair whilst the other is loose and splayed, as though he lacks the energy to hold it steady. He sighs, long, slow and self-satisfied, and then lifts his hand a little so he can look at Scotland.

"I was right, wasn't I, _mon cher_?" he says in a tired-sounding drawl. "A most elegant solution."

For a moment, the only answer Scotland can think to give is that it wasn't as bad as he'd feared it was going to be. There was a brief period – just a short span of years; not even a full loop in the tangled skein that is their relationship to date – when he and France came as a package deal, two for the price of one, and any conquest of France's was one they shared. And yet, more often than not, they had remained solely France's conquests, regardless of the lip service they paid to appease him. Scotland had often found himself thinking that he might as well have taken himself off on his own at the start and had a wank for all the attention they paid him. Netherlands had made the effort to include him, at least, although it was clear that the majority of his interest, his passion, was focused on France.

If nothing else, the experience has served to remind Scotland that he wasn't just unhappy with this sort arrangement before, he had hated it; hated seeing someone else's hands on France's body, someone else's mouth against his skin. He hates it even more now that the bond between the two of them is weaker – thinned by the passage of years and familiarity – and he has no guarantee of France's continued attention anymore.

He feels the unsteadiness again, like a wave of vertigo washing over him, but he still can't fight the old instinct to center himself; return his feet to the same well-worn path. He's never thought of himself as a coward, yet in this, it seems, he is anything but brave.

"Aye," he says. "Aye, ye were."


	3. Chapter 3

**7th July, 2009; Paris, France**

Scotland had risen from bed to close the window as the slight breeze blowing through it was raising goosebumps as it flowed over his skin, which was still damp with cooling sweat, and when he turns away from it again, he notices that one of Netherlands' hands has crept up to curl around France's shoulder.

It's an innocuous enough thing, given everything else Netherlands' hands have done tonight, but the sight reminds Scotland painfully of the disparity that apparently exists between them. They'd been at a bar earlier that evening, the first time they'd been all been out in public together since this all first began, and it had felt like a punch to the gut for Scotland to see that the behaviour that France had always discouraged in him was allowed for Netherlands; even encouraged. The brief kisses, the light touches, the countless tiny intimacies that spelt out for anyone watching that the two of them were together; an impression that France had apparently never wanted to give about Scotland and himself.

It doesn't feel like a punch this time, nor even like falling as Scotland had always thought that it would. It feels like something within him that was already frayed and well-worn finally snapping, but not with a sharp crack or explosion, just a slow, gentle parting. He feels weak and light-headed as it breaks and flows away from him, and he has to lean against the window frame for a moment when his legs threaten to give way beneath him.

It's the sudden realisation which is really just an acknowledgment of something he's known for a long time but never dared admit before: I'm tired of this. Tired of this endless balancing act and giving in time after time to keep hold of this thing which is only a tiny fraction of what he really wants, anyway. He's not even sure if it's what France wants, either.

When his legs eventually stop trembling, he starts to gather up his clothes without really thinking about why. France stirs as Scotland fishes under the bed for his right shoe, and his eyes open a crack, glinting in the moonlight creeping in through the slight gap between curtains that Scotland hadn't quite pulled to.

"What are jou doing?" he asks, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

"Jist need some air," Scotland says, and it isn't exactly a lie, because he doesn't have any idea where he's going to go other than somewhere far away from tangled limbs, naked skin, and the cloying smell of sex.

France lazily reaches out a hand and briefly presses his thumb against Scotland's lips. "Hurry back," he whispers.

"Ah will," Scotland says, which is definitely a lie.

* * *

Scotland just puts his head down and walks, thinking no further than the next step he's going to take. He walks until – despite the fact that he knows Paris almost as well as he knows London or any of his own cities – he doesn't recognise the streets anymore, and the sky gilds overhead as the sun begins to rise.

He rests for a moment, leaning up against a scrubby, half-dead looking tree, and for some reason, with stillness, the emptiness in his head is filled by the almost overwhelming urge to get drunk and talk to someone who isn't France, though not necessarily in that order. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and dials Ireland's number, but she doesn't answer either of her home phones or her mobile, even after his third attempt at each.

As he scrolls through his contacts list, he's disturbed to realise that, after Ireland and France, his closest friends are probably England and Wales, which is possibly one of the most depressing thoughts to ever cross his mind. In the end, he plumps for England's number simply because it's the first one he lands on, and, at the end of the day, both choices are equally dire, if for completely different reasons.

England answers his phone on the fourth ring, and slurs something completely incomprehensible which Scotland presumes must be a question due to the slight rise in pitch at the end.

"Hey, Iggy," Scotland says, already feeling like this might not be one of his better ideas. "It's Scotland."

"Scotlan'?" There's a rustle of fabric and the subdued creaking of springs, and then England says, "Scotland, what the fuck? It's half past bloody five; what the hell do you want?"

Yes, definitely not his best. "Jist thought you might fancy going tae the pub wae me, is all."

"You rang me up at arse o'clock in the fucking morning to ask if I want to go to the pub?" England pauses, heaves an exasperated-sounding sigh, and then says, "Well, if you're that bloody desperate for a drink, I guess something drastic must have happened. Problems with your parliament, is it?"

He sounds positively eager at the thought, which almost makes Scotland give it up as a bad job and try Wales instead. Although Wales probably wouldn't make such a big production about being woken up, he's also much more likely to prod Scotland with personal questions he doesn't even want to contemplate until he's too drunk to see straight.

"Ma parliament's fine, cheers fer askin,," Scotland snaps. "Ah jist want a drink. It's no' that fuckin' unusual, is it?"

"No, but you don't usually…" England's mouth is obviously too close to the receiver, because when he clears his throat, it nearly deafens Scotland. "You can come down here, then. I'm not dragging myself all the way up there because you 'just want a drink'."

"Well, Ah think the Eurostar should have started running by now," Scotland says, checking his watch. "So, presuming that Ah huvnae got maself too lost, and Ah kin get a taxi, Ah shouldnae be more than a few hours."

"Eurostar? Where the hell are you, Scotland?"

"Paris."

There's another pause on England's end, filled only with the sound of his deep, slow breaths, echoing strangely. "Give me a call when you know what time your train's getting in. I'll pick you up from St Pancras."


	4. Chapter 4

**8th July, 2009; London, England**

England's local is the sort of place that gets cited in guidebooks as an example of the 'quintessential British pub'. It's poky and badly lit, and the dark wood chairs don't match the tables or each other. The carpet is that peculiar shade that Scotland has always thought of as 'Pub Red' because it never seems to be used anywhere else, and the only nods to modernity are the widescreen television attached to the wall near the bar – surrounded by horse brasses and hazy watercolours of sheep being rained on, as though in an attempt to draw the eye away from the intrusive starkness of its lines – and a jukebox, albeit one whose selection of songs contains nothing recorded later than the mid-Seventies.

The clientele is a strange mix: mostly gnarled old men who've probably drunk there every night since the pub opened, but there's also a handful of students and young professionals – no doubt lured in by a good review on ViewLondon – and a smattering of earnest, bearded real ale drinkers because there are beers with names like ''Pheasant Plucker' and 'Old Stoatwobbler' on sale. England technically fits into two of the groups, given that he is older than all of the other regulars combined, and a member of CAMRA.

Accordingly, the first beer England buys comes in a chunky, old-fashioned brown bottle with a sour-faced bulldog and gold-edged scrolls on the label, but, for once, he doesn't try and force it on Scotland as well, and hands him a pint of Carling instead.

They sit in silence for a moment afterwards; England apparently engrossed in attempting to position his bottle so that it fits neatly over the logo on the beermat beneath it, whilst Scotland draws wavy lines through the condensation on the side of his glass, and wracks his brain for a suitable conversation starter. Now that he's actually here, this seems like an even worse idea than it had in the wee hours of the morning. He can't remember the last time he and England spent a substantial amount of time together without at least the buffer of Wales between them, attempting – albeit unsuccessfully most of the time – to keep the discourse civil and calm ruffled tempers. It could, he thinks, get incredibly messy.

"So," England says eventually, clasping his hands together and leaning across the table towards Scotland as if he's about to share some grand and secret knowledge that he doesn't want to risk anyone else in the pub overhearing. "Bloody strange weather we've been having recently, isn't it?"

After that, it's remarkably easy. They talk about the weather until they exhaust the topic – which sees them through two beers each – then move on to cars, something which England can wax lyrical on beyond the limits of even the most ardent automobile enthusiasts' endurance. They skirt around the more contentious subject of sport, keeping the discussion abstract, until someone switches the telly on to the cricket. Scotland can't help but cheer on Australia's team, given who they're playing; something which England should have expected, but makes his face flush an interesting shade of crimson, nevertheless. With a degree of restraint Scotland would never have expected of him, however, he doesn't start an argument about it like he usually does – "_I always support your fucking teams when they're playing anyone other than mine. Why can you never extend me the same courtesy?_" – he just steers the conversation in the more mutually satisfying direction of mocking the current state of Wales' various teams, instead.

This carries them through a late dinner of surprisingly good steak and kidney pie, and another two pints after that, but then they take a turn towards 'Big Brother' and 'X-Factor's past and Scotland isn't nearly drunk enough for that. In fact, he isn't anywhere near as drunk as he wants to be, and closing time is looming very close on the horizon.

However, he is drunk enough to say, "We should go clubbin', England."

And England is drunk enough to agree.

* * *

"I think I need a little rest," England announces as they stagger across Tower Bridge. "My feet are fucking killing me."

He slumps against the low wall that borders the pavement, throwing both arms over the top of to keep himself almost upright as his knees start to buckle. Scotland leans against the wall next to him, thankful both for the support and the excuse of waiting for England, like a good brother, to take a breather without it looking like he had the need for either. His head is spinning, though, alcohol just exacerbating the peculiar dissonance of being in a place that is simultaneously both his and yet not quite that he usually feels in London, in any part of England, and which always throws him slightly out of kilter at the best of times.

"'S all that dancin'," Scotland says when he manages to coordinate the unnecessarily complicated combination of tongue and lip movements which form the words. "Well, that thing ye were doin' that Ah think wis meant tae be dancin', anyways."

England slowly rolls his chin along the top of the wall until he's looking at Scotland, brows bristling as he scowls. His mouth works silently for a moment, presumably running through a variety of suitably cutting retorts, but he finally just goes with, "Piss off."

"Jus' looked like ye were desperate for the toilet," Scotland says, sniggering.

England in a club has to be one of the most bizarre sights Scotland has witnessed in recent years. Barring a brief, best-forgotten, flirtation with leather trousers and strategically-placed safety pins during the heyday of punk, England's love affair with the lounge suit has continued unabated since its invention. He'd soon lost the tank top and tie – both of which had vanished without trace as soon as he took them off – but he still looked completely out of place in his neatly-pressed trousers and sensible shoes, like an accountant who'd somehow taken a wrong turning on their way to their company's AGM. He'd shuffled around on the dance floor for a bit, at Scotland's insistence, but he held his arms stiffly against his sides the entire time, his eyes dull and distant as if he were trying to divorce himself from the entire affair and pretend it wasn't happening.

"Can't dance to that sort of music, can you." England snorts. "'S not music, anyway, just noise."

Scotland rolls his eyes, which makes him feel dizzy and more than a little nauseated. "Come on, Ah know that yer no' really this much o' a stick in the mud. You still go to Glastonbury every year, don't ye? And you used tae love dancin'; always forcing me an' Wales to go to those ridiculous balls and shite."

"That was different," England snaps. "It meant something then, now it's just…" He voice trails off, and he lifts his shoulders, indicating his complete bafflement at the concept.

When it becomes clear that England isn't going to say anything else anytime soon, Scotland turns his attention to the Thames, flowing sluggishly beneath them. Reflected light from the buildings on its banks burnishes streaks of gold across its gently rippled surface, and the sight makes Scotland feel very old suddenly, remembering the days when it would reflect little more than star- and moonlight at night, almost as dark as the sky above it. He also remembers pushing England into it a time or ten back then, as well, which prevents his mood slipping from reminiscent into anything approaching melancholy.

Eventually, England starts shifting beside him and coughs hoarsely a couple of times. Scotland's presumes it's a prelude to him throwing up until he says, "So, Paris, then," in a thin voice which is barely even audible.

The name startles Scotland slightly. He hadn't forgotten exactly – he doesn't think it would ever be possible for him to get drunk enough for that – no matter how anaesthetised by alcohol he became, but he had managed to not actively think about it. It's as though his brain is in a holding pattern, still trying to process how to feel about his decision, and the strange emptiness from earlier remains. Part of him wants it to remain that way indefinitely, but, knowing that's likely impossible, he'd hoped for a day's grace, at least. Almost expected it, as he'd counted on England's natural reticence when it came to even mentioning Scotland and France in the same sentence to weigh down his tongue and stop any questions, no matter how curious he might be.

"Whit aboot Paris?" Scotland asks, stalling for time.

"Did something happen between you and the… Between you and France?" England mumbles, directing the question to some random point above Scotland's head, eyes shying away from making any contact with Scotland's.

"Dumped him," Scotland says, spitting the words out quickly so they don't have the chance to linger in his mind for too long, "but he doesnae know that yet."

"Oh," England's eyes widen slightly. "Oh, that's… That's very…" His words fracture into meaningless noises, and then, eventually, silence.

Most other people – most other brothers – would try and offer some sort of comfort at this juncture, Scotland thinks; if not a hug, then at least a commiserating pat on the back or even a brief clasp of hands. England, however, remains completely still, not a single twitch of a finger to suggest that the idea has even crossed his mind.

"No' gonnae be like last time, though," Scotland says, shaking his head. "That's it. Full stop."

England's expression gets caught somewhere between relieved and apologetic, leaving him looking as though the two halves of his face are at odds with each other, and also a little bilious. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding almost sincere, but then continues with: "You could do a hell of a lot better, anyway. He's a slimy, treacherous git. And a pervert to boot."

Scotland can't help but laugh despite himself, as England's oft-repeated opinion has always been that the two of them were only fit for each other. "He says exactly the same thing about you, ye know."

England looks scandalised. "I am as pure as the driven fucking snow, compared to him."

Scotland can't stop himself from saying, "Don't give me that, England. Ah've seen yer porn collection."

Although it's gratifying to see England blanch in response, he always feels on shaky ground when their conversation takes this sort of turn, especially without Wales there, so it seems safer, if no more comfortable, to return them to their previous subject.

"Ah've been waitin' all these years fer somethin' tae change between us, an' it's never happened. Like Ah've been runnin' just to stay in the same place," he says. "I'm just sick o' it all."

England nods, lips twitching upwards into a rueful smile, and Scotland presumes he's more than likely thinking about America, although he'd probably never admit to it. It's galling to realise, with just the benefit of a few hours hindsight, how similar they are in this. Both of them have trained themselves to be accept, if not necessarily be content with, less than they want just to hold on for that little bit longer, encouraged by the tiniest scraps of attention or affection tossed their way. Except that Scotland's finally broken free, and he can only hope that England will either do the same or gather his courage to push for more.

He opens his mouth to tell England that – it really is good advice – but is shocked into swallowing down his words when England suddenly lunges at him. Scotland's hands clench involuntarily into fists, an instinctual response to any sudden movement on England's part honed by their many years of conflict, but before he can raise them, his arms are trapped by his side as England's tightly wrap around his body. They're soon released, though, and England hurriedly steps back, blinking rapidly, his mouth slightly agape, as though surprised by his own actions.

"Whit the fuck, England?" is all Scotland can think to say.

"I might think you're best off shot of him, but you do seem… fond of him, so. I really am sorry." All this is said a rush, almost a single breath, but the steam soon seems to leave England, and he finishes with a half-hearted, "And if you ever need to, you know."

'You know' is apparently something described by the vague waving motion of England's hand, which Scotland chooses to interpret as 'talk'. He's honestly a little touched by the offer, even though he knows he'll more than likely never take England up on it, and England probably only made it because it seemed like the sort of thing he _should_ say in these circumstances, rather than from any genuine desire to help.

"Aye, I'll bear that in mind." Scotland suddenly feels exhausted, almost ready to drop where he stands, but also distressingly close to sobering up. "Ye still got some of that whisky Ah gave ye fer Christmas?" he asks.

England's nose wrinkles slightly as he nods. He's never been fond of the brand Scotland always buys for him – Scotland's favourite, and one of the best – but, after countless years of having had to put up with England's politely disappointed face on Christmas morning, Scotland has given up on trying to find him something he does like. This way, at least one of them receives something pleasurable from the exchange as Scotland invariably gets to drink the entire bottle himself over the course of the year during his visits to England.

"Thought somethin' wis callin' ma name," Scotland says, grabbing hold of England's sleeve. "Come on, ye've rested fer long enough. Ah'll even treat ye tae a kebab on the way."


	5. Chapter 5

**9th July, 2009; London, England**

Normally, Scotland wakes easily a little after dawn with a clear head and steady hands, no matter how much he might have drunk the night before. It's something of a novelty, therefore, to be greeted by a headache, churning stomach, and limbs that feel leaden and unresponsive as he lurches back towards consciousness in fits and starts.

The hangover he can deal with; they don't happen very often, and when they do it feels like every other hangover he's managed to avoid hitting him all at once, but it's nothing that a few cups of tea and a couple of paracetamol won't cure. What's more worrying is the gap in his memory which might explain the warmth of another person close against his back.

Scotland's body protests as he tries to shuffle away from the unwelcome contact, as does his bedmate, who flings an arm around Scotland's middle and mumbles something wordless yet still recognisably disapproving. The voice is instantly recognisable too, and Scotland's already choleric mood is soured yet further by the slight tang of something akin to terror, even though, logically, he knows that there's not enough alcohol in the world – in the universe – to render him insensible enough to ever shag England, no matter what France might have to say about how unlikely it is that they actually share blood.

Logic doesn't stop the tremor of apprehension that races through him, making his heart pound hard against his ribs, as he pushes away the bedcovers and then cautiously slits open his eyes to look back at his brother. Thankfully, the only items of clothing that England seems to have lost are his socks, and although it's a relief to be able to discount any ridiculous, irrational notions of shagging, the blank spot in his head remains, regardless.

He pokes at it stubbornly because he's always prided himself on the acuity of his memory, but no matter how hard he concentrates – a painful undertaking, as the throbbing in his head is exacerbated by every attempt – he can recall nothing more than vague impressions of movement and snatches of sound from the moment they stumbled through England's front door until his return to awareness a few minutes beforehand.

_Tea and paracetamol_, he reminds himself, irritably pushing all other thoughts aside, _and maybe a bacon sandwich. If that doesn't do the trick, then you can start to worry_.

As he tries to roll away from England and begin the slow, laborious process of getting out of bed, however, his brother's arm tenses, and he grabs a handful of Scotland's T-shirt, holding him still.

"Whit the fuck?" Scotland pulls at England's fingers, but the more he tries to break England's grip, the stronger it gets. "Get off o' me, England."

A swift elbow to the stomach only elicits a soft groan from England, and, counterintuitively, appears to encourage him to move even closer until his chest is pressed so tightly against Scotland's back that Scotland can feel every single button on England's shirt, digging into his skin.

Another brief struggle to escape only results in Scotland's headache worsening to the point where it feels as though it's about to split his skull in two, and England hooking one leg around Scotland's so his… the parts of his body that Scotland likes to pretend to don't exist are uncomfortably close to nudging against the top of Scotland's thigh if he shifts his position even an inch or so awry from centre.

"Jesus Christ, Ah guess Ah'm staying here, then," Scotland says with a sigh of resignation. "But if ye start humpin' ma leg, Ah'll knee ye so fuckin' hard ye'll need tae go through puberty again afterwards."

He flicks England hard between the eyes to reinforce his warning, and England mutters something that sounds like, "_Furkul_," before pressing his face against Scotland's shoulder and proceeding to dribble down his arm.

"Ah hope ye remember this the next time ye try an' tell me Ah'm no' a fantastic big brother, England," Scotland tells him, even though, judging by the snoring, his momentary dalliance with almost-consciousness is already at an end. "Bloody hell, all the shite Ah need tae put up wae, yer lucky ye lived tae see puberty the first time aroon."

Scotland lets his head fall back down against his pillow, and tries to ignore England and relax, no matter how futile an endeavour it might be. Scant moments after he closes his eyes, however, they're shocked open again as his hair is yanked so hard that he's surprised that a clump of it isn't ripped out at its roots.

"Ya bastard!" he snarls, reaching up reflexively with the intention of grabbing his brother's arm before he has the chance to retract it. "Ah try tae be nice tae ye, and all ye can ddae is –"

His hand closes on nothing but air because his assailant isn't England, it's a tiny gnome-like creature with a face like a smacked arse which scampers away to perch at the edge of the mattress and glare at Scotland accusingly with glowing green eyes.

"Whit the hell was that fer!?" Scotland asks, rubbing at the sore spot on his scalp.

The gnome-thing's eyes spark brighter as it points towards England. Scotland notices that there are a few strands of red hair wrapped around its stubby little fingers, which he should really try and snatch back before it disappears lest he wants to start sprouting donkey ears or a pig nose at some point in the future.

England's fae usually avoid both Scotland and Wales like the plague, only making their presence known when they think England is in danger from one of them, an occurrence which has become increasingly rare in recent years. Nevertheless, they're obviously still primed and ready to rush to his aid if they sense a threat.

"Dunnae worry," Scotland says, attempting to sound reassuring. "Ah promise ye that Ah wulnae lay another finger on him unless he starts dreaming that Ah'm America or somethin'."

The reassuring tone is obviously effective, as the frown slowly fades from the gnome-thing's face, and it trots across the bed to carefully set Scotland's hairs back on the top of his head, as though it thinks that returning them to their proper place will cause them to reattach themselves. It then sits back on its heels just in front of Scotland's nose, baring a mouthful of yellowing needle-sharp teeth as it grins broadly at him.

It just sits and grins until Scotland is unnerved enough to consider picking it up and chucking it across the room just to get it to stop, even though he knows there's a high likelihood that he'd lose several fingers in the process.

"If ye've got nothin' better tae dae than sit there, ye could always go an' make me a cup o' tea," he suggests instead, smiling encouragingly.

The gnome-thing does not budge even slightly.

"Cup. Of. Tea," Scotland says again, enunciating each word carefully.

Still no reaction.

"Tea."

Scotland forms a capital T with his index fingers, and jerks his head towards the bedroom door, but his only response is a high-pitched squealing noise which he presumes is the gnome-thing equivalent of laughter.

"For fuck's sake," Scotland says under his breath, "doesn't England teach ye tae dae _anything_ useful."

Scotland's own fae do a sterling job of keeping his things as neat and clean as they can in the face of Scotland's natural laissez-faire attitude towards house-keeping. In exchange for a capful of whisky or a bowl of milk, they'll happily wash his dishes, tidy away the day's discarded clothes whilst he sleeps, scare away mice from his kitchen, and a myriad other little tasks he tends to overlook himself. England has always had a strange relationship with magical creatures, though, as far as Scotland's concerned. When he was a kid, he'd always seemed to prefer their company to that of his people or even other nations, something which Scotland had hoped he'd grow out of, but which he never really did. He'd just learnt to hide it better.

"Ah bet it's jist the same as back then, aye? O' course he's no' gonnae to get ye tae dae chores." Scotland modulates his voice to match England's clear tenor, and continues with: "'You are my only friends. Please let me soak your sparkling wings with my tears as I complain about how cruel my brothers are without every once stopping to think that maybe they're just…'" Scotland breaks off with a chuckle. "And ye dunnae even understand a word Ah'm saying, dae ye?"

The gnome-things luminescent eyes have dimmed a little, but its expression is otherwise completely unchanged, the exact same inane grin splitting its face. There are very few fae who can understand human speech beyond simple phrases, and it clearly isn't amongst their number.

Now that the brief promise of tea has been dangled temptingly in front of him, however, there's no way Scotland can wait the indeterminate length of time it will take England to wake up to get it. "Ah guess Ah'llbe makin' ma own tea, then."

He gingerly pushes at the gnome-thing with the tip of his finger until it jumps off the side of the bed, chittering angrily, and then takes a deep, fortifying breath before wrenching his body to one side with a violence that not only breaks him free from England's Convolvulus-like grip, but also makes his vision blur and bile rise in his throat as he struggles to regain his balance afterwards. England grumbles and thrashes around a little until Scotland presses a pillow into his outstretched arms, which he curls around happily.

The gnome-thing glowers at Scotland from beneath the chest of drawers as he passes them on his way to the bedroom door. "Ah didnae hurt him, so ye kin ferget about pissin' in the milk or whatever else it is yer thinking about doin' in revenge," he tells it sternly.

* * *

Scotland finds one of England's socks, rather puzzlingly, in the fridge when he goes to collect the milk for his tea.

The other one is in the living room alongside Scotland's jacket, both of which are buried beneath the large pile of empties Scotland has to kick aside in order to reach in England's favourite armchair. The bottles and cans spill the last few dribbles of alcohol they contain over them as they roll away across the carpet, and the smell sets Scotland's stomach to roiling again.

"No wonder Ah've got fuckin' hangover," he grumbles, picking up his jacket and then shaking it out in a futile attempt to dry it. His mobile slithers out of the pocket on the third flick, and lands in his lap.

The sight of it triggers a fuzzy memory of the night before: England scowling and telling him to stop, '_staring at his bloody phone_', because he'd '_turned it off for a damn good reason_', before plucking it out of his hand and replacing it with a glass. The scene fizzles out with the slight sting of whisky echoing on his lips, and Scotland rubs distractedly at his mouth with one hand as he turns his mobile back on with the other.

The screen informs him that he's missed nine calls, two of which were from Ireland, no doubt wanting to know why he'd been calling her in the early hours of Wednesday morning, but the other seven… The other seven were all from France.

Scotland stares down at the name for a moment, his thumb hovering over the call button, unable to decide whether he should press it or not. He should really let France know where he is, and why he is where he is, but he'd rather wait until he's feeling a little more equal to the conversation. Maybe after he's finished his tea and had some breakfast; when his head's cleared and he doesn't feel like shit; when he's drunk again on another night when he doesn't have an interfering brother there to confiscate his phone. But, then again, perhaps it's best done quickly so that the pain is over faster, even though it might initially be more acute. Some things it's best to not let fester.

France answers partway through the second ring.

"Where are jou, _mon cher?_" he asks without preamble. His words are clipped slightly short by some emotion that Scotland would like to think is anxiety, but is more likely annoyance.

"London. England's house," Scotland replies brusquely.

"Jou disappeared in the middle of the night to go and visit jour brother? Without leaving me any sort of message, any idea of where jou might have gone? And zhen jou don't answer jour phone for a day? I was –"

"Worried?" Scotland cuts in, perhaps a little too abruptly. It's unfair of him: France might never have cared as much as Scotland wished him to, but there's also no reason for him to assume that the concern is anything other than genuine. "Sorry, Ah probably should have left a note," he says, forcing himself to soften his tone, "but Ah wusnae really thinking. It was a spur o' the moment kinda thing, ye ken. I just had to get away."

Scotland fancies he can almost hear France's eyebrows drawing together, the lines forming on his brow, and the puzzlement bleeds into his tone as he asks, "Get away? From what?"

Scotland nearly answers, '_From you_,' but that's unfair too, and a lie besides.

"Ah wis lyin' before," he says instead. "Ah don't think this is an elegant solution tae anythin', an' Ah dunnae want tae dae it anymore."

He can hear his own heartbeat thumping fast and heavy in his ears as he waits for France's reply, and sweat starts to prickle along his hairline and slicken his palms. This is it, at last; his first step deliberately taken off-balance.

"That is a shame," France sounds a little disappointed, but not overly so, "but if you're uncomfortable with our arrangement, then I suppose our previous one has always served us well. I suppose I shall see you when I –"

"Naw," Scotland barks out. "Ah dunnae want tae go back tae oor previous _anythin'_. Ah know ye probably dunnae want tae hear this any more than ye did the last time Ah said it, France, but Ah love ye." It's been over four hundred years and the words haven't become any easier to say; they still feel clumsy and inadequate, falling heavily into the void left by the silence at the other end of the phone. Scotland can't even hear France breathing. "Ah love ye, an' it's no' enough, whit we huv. Hud. Whitever. It's never been enough..."

France chuckles, just a short, jagged burst of sound. "_Had_?" he says, sounding slightly incredulous. "Am I to understand that jou're ending zhings between us?"

He doesn't mention anything about love, but then that doesn't surprise Scotland. He'd acted as though he hadn't heard Scotland's first declaration, either, which was one of the many reasons Scotland has never repeated it before now.

"Ending whit, exactly? Ah mean, we fuck occasionally, aye, but it's only when _you_ want tae. When there isnae anybody else ye'd rather be fuckin'. Hell, you dunnae even seem tae like me bein' close tae ye when we're no' in bed. Whit huv we got ootside o' a habit ye huvnae quite been able tae break yet?"

"I," France begins, but then seems to change his mind about what he wants to say, continuing after a brief pause with: "Jou're obviously upset. Maybe we should speak about zhis later."

His voice is almost completely expressionless, and Scotland can't read anything of what he might be feeling into it.

"Sure," Scotland says, breathing out a shuddering sigh. "Sure, we kin, but it's no' gonnae change anythin'. And give me a little time before we do, awrite?"

And with that, it's done; nothing more to be said than a brief a brief exchange of farewells that are completely unchanged from those they usually give each other.

It was so much easier than Scotland had ever imagined, and yet his hands are still shaking when he finishes the call, fingers trembling so much that it's a struggle to coordinate them sufficiently to put the phone back into his pocket afterwards. He closes his eyes, and just breathes for a moment until his scattered concentration is drawn to the doorway by a quiet cough; a small, unobtrusive noise which politely announces England's presence there without insisting he acknowledge it.

England looks like crap; he hasn't changed out of the rumpled clothes he'd slept in, his hair is plastered against the side of his head, and his eyes so darkly bloodshot that it's obvious even from halfway across the room where Scotland's sitting. He still manages a tremulous smile when Scotland does acknowledge him with a slight upwards twitch of his eyebrows, however.

Scotland wonders how long he's been standing there but, then again, it doesn't really seem to matter, either way. No matter how much England might have overheard, not a word concerning it will ever pass his lips, unless, of course, they get so drunk at some point decades down the line that he unwinds enough to perhaps allude to it in the very vaguest of terms.

England takes a small step towards Scotland, but then stops, his hands clasping together in front of him. "Would you like… Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks, voice cracking slightly in the centre of each word.

It's as close to an offer of a hug that England's likely to give whilst he's sober, and, of the two, it's the one that Scotland's more grateful to accept.

"Aye," he says, letting his heavy eyelids drag themselves closed again. "An' could ye grab me some paracetamol whilst yer at it, as well?"


	6. Chapter 6

**16th July, 2009; London, England**

Scotland stifles a yawn with the back of his hand, and then slumps down even lower in his seat. Beside him, England sits with his back straight, eyes bright and focused, watching the proceedings below with what appears to be rapt attention. His left calf is resting against his right knee, forming a sort of makeshift table for his thick notepad, and every so often he will nod and jot something down in his neat, even hand.

Scotland also has a notepad, pushed on him by England before they left his house that morning, but it's covered with nonsensical doodles and several games of noughts and crosses that he'd played against himself when his boredom was at its most acute, before he'd reached this current plateau of tedium and part of his brain had seemingly shut itself down in an act of self-preservation.

He adds a few more lines to thicken the eyebrows on the scruffy sketch of England he'd started earlier, and then scribbles the whole thing out, pressing down so hard that the tip of his pen rips through the paper. It's petty, and the sense of satisfaction he feels when the real England's eyebrows twitch upwards in response to the noise is a little hollow, but given the political kerfuffle that would no doubt ensue if he were to twat England over the head with the notepad as he'd prefer, it's the only safe way to vent his frustration.

"Can you keep it down," England says out of the corner of his mouth without even bothering to look at Scotland. "I'm trying to concentrate."

With a certain amount of difficulty, Scotland squelches the equally petty urge to rip out the page and force-feed it to England, and simply re-caps his pen. He misses the days when his expected level of involvement in the political process was to turn up for battles, inspire his own men, and kill as many of the enemy's as possible. He was good at that, very good; he's not very good at _this_. The endless debates he takes no part in, the considered advice that his bosses are under no obligation to listen to, and the piles upon piles of paperwork he has to force himself to read, albeit usually at the last possible minute.

England, on the other hand, seems to thrive on the bureaucracy and tedious minutiae, and Scotland has a sneaking suspicion that he's actually _enjoying_ himself.

Nevertheless, it is at least part of England's job – Scotland's too, technically, but his visits to Westminster have become even more infrequent since his own parliament was established – to be here; it defies Scotland's comprehension why anyone else currently in the Strangers' Gallery would chose to be; even lining up for the chance, sometimes. Granted, it can be entertaining viewing when the debates get particularly heated, but most of the time, it's just like this; dry and boring, combatants facing each other with their claws sheathed by ceremonial politeness.

Scotland props his elbows on his knees, his chin on top of his linked hands, and tries to concentrate on the question the Honourable So-and-So has addressed to his Honourable Friend Such-and-Such. The Honourable So-and-So's voice is smooth and carefully modulated, but his expression is intense, and Scotland imagines that he might occasionally long for the days when arguments were settled at the point of a sword, as well. A few of the MPs on the back benches behind the equally formidable-looking Honourable Friend Such-and-Such appear to be nodding off, and Scotland's own eyelids start droop in sympathy.

He's awoken from a light doze some time later by England rapping him smartly on the shoulder with a rolled up sheaf of paper.

"Come on, it's time to go. You'll need this," he says, thrusting the papers into Scotland's hands after Scotland's finished stretching his arms up above his head in an attempt to straighten out the kink in his back.

"Whit is it?" Scotland asks, quickly leafing through the pages, disheartened by both the denseness of the print and the familiar crowned portcullis adorning the header of each one.

"Background reading for our meeting tomorrow. I'll make you a copy of my notes, too, as yours seem to be a little lacking." He nods towards Scotland's notepad, which must have slipped from his lap whilst he was napping and has fallen open to reveal the particularly intricate, swirling pattern that had kept Scotland occupied during the first hour the House was in session.

"Meetin'?" Scotland had only agreed to accompany England today in a bid to stop his brother's incessant nagging about how he needed something to distract himself, and 'it might as well be something _useful_'. There had been no discussion of follow-up meetings of any sort.

"With our boss. I have mentioned it before, Scotland. Several times, in fact. Your parliament might well be in recess already, but that doesn't mean that there's no work for you to do." He pauses, and then snaps open his briefcase again, digging out another stack of papers that's easily twice the size of the first. "You'd better take these, as well, to ensure you're completely up to speed."

Scotland takes the new papers reluctantly. "Ye expect me tae read all o' these tonight?"

"Of course," England says. "You don't want to go in under-prepared, do you?"

England has been dropping hints for the past few days that it is perhaps time for Scotland to go back to Edinburgh, but this is probably his most blatant. Apparently, he'd pulled the same trick to get rid of Wales back in April. They always met with the PM separately, because it inevitably descended into a slanging match which embarrassed everyone involved if they didn't. Wales had only gone along with the suggestion in the mistaken belief that it'd get England off his back for a while and give him some breathing space, but the resulting fallout and England's vile mood afterwards had harried him back to Cardiff rather sooner than he'd been intending.

"Ah dunnae think this is a very guid idea, England."

"Nonsense, I believe he's quite looking forward to the chance of talking to us both together for a change," England says, bestowing a beatific smile upon Scotland.

Conniving bastard.

Scotland had planned on returning home as soon as his hangover abated on the ninth, but as time wore on and he still couldn't face the idea of making the long train journey, he'd gratefully accepted England's offer of a bed for the night. One night somehow turned into two and then three, and Scotland had found himself more and more unwilling to leave as the days passed, because, no matter how objectionable the company, England's house still feels like _home_ to him, perhaps even more so than his own house in Edinburgh. A safe place to rest, lick his wounds, and avoid the world for as long as possible. Ten years, it seems, isn't long enough to negate the custom of nigh on three hundred, no matter how often he'd dreamt of the day when they were no longer forced to live with each other during that time.

If England's upping the ante and willing to risk shaming them both to hasten Scotland's departure, however, then Scotland will just have to jump before he's pushed.

"Ah've awready got a meeting scheduled with him back in Edinburgh at the beginning o' next week. Perhaps it would be better," Scotland says, slowly and carefully, "if Ah took the time to familiarise myself thoroughly wae the material for then, instead o' leapin' in half-cocked noo."

Usually, Scotland spends more time discussing Raith Rovers with the PM during their meetings than he does national policy, but England doesn't need to know that.

A spasm of something that looks a little like fear contorts England's face, but he quickly fights it into submission. "Now, that's all well and good, but –"

"Got some other stuff back home that Ah need tae sort oot before then, too, so Ah guess it's aboot time Ah made a move."

England doesn't even try to hide the small, self-satisfied-looking smile that curves the corners of his mouth upon hearing that, however. Scotland's urge to inflict pain on him returns with some strength in response, but it's not so overwhelming that he can't defer gratification until they're safely out of the House of Commons and less likely to send some passing politician into a conniption fit, imagining that the Union is on the verge of collapsing.

"Although I'm sure he'll be disappointed, that does seem like a sensible course of action," England says.

Seeing as though their current boss has had to suffer through not only the recent disastrous meeting with England and Wales, but also a previous meeting with England and Scotland that they'd arranged in a misguided attempt at cohesion a couple of years ago, Scotland assumes he will be more relieved than disappointed.

Despite Scotland's contrarian streak demanding that he stay at England's a while longer just to wipe the smug look from his face, it really was past time that he returned to his normal routine, and shooting himself in the foot, besides. Calling Sweden to suggest that England had been missing their littlest brother, and would love to have him over to visit for a week or so, would be a much more satisfying, and less personally taxing, way of dealing with England, anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

**17th July, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

Given that going to the pub on a Friday night is an essential part of Scotland's normal routine, he chooses to consider it not so much an admission of defeat when he finally despairs of ever making sense of the documents England had given him and repairs to his local, but more of an essential step towards getting himself back on an even keel.

He's barely finished ordering his first pint when he's slapped on the back and greeted with, "Where the hell have you been hiding, Aly?" by James, one of the lads he usually plays football with on a Sunday.

"Been staying doon in London wae Arthur," Scotland says, motioning for James to take the stool next to him at the bar, an offer which the man quickly accepts. "One of ma brothers," he adds in response to James' blank expression. When that also doesn't appear to ignite a spark of recognition, he elaborates with: "The English one. Short-arse, blond, always got a face on him like he's chewing a wasp."

"Oh, aye." James chuckles, and shakes his head. "I remember him."

"It was aboot as much fun as ye'd expect," Scotland says, grinning.

A few months back, Scotland, who'd been in the midst of one of his infrequent waves of something approaching brotherly affection, had invited England to join in on one of their Sunday games in an attempt to jolt his brother out of yet another of his, rather more frequent, dark moods. England had summarily appointed himself captain of their team, complained at length about their tactics, barked out orders like a drill sergeant, and generally endeared himself to absolutely no one. A couple of Scotland's mates had drawn him aside afterwards and begged him to never repeat the invitation, and Scotland – whose feelings of brotherly affection tended to be inversely correlated with distance, and generally evaporated immediately upon contact with England at the best of times, anyway – had readily agreed.

"We just presumed you'd stayed on in Paris a bit longer. You know, with your bloke."

England hasn't mentioned France once since that first night, so it feels slightly strange to start talking about him again, even obliquely. "No' ma bloke anymore, Jamsie." Scotland is proud of how steady his voice sounds; almost casual. "We've split up."

"Oh." James' face flushes slightly, reddening across his cheekbones and to the tips of his ears. "Shit, sorry to hear that, mate. You'd been together ages, hadn't you?"

Scotland can't really tell him, 'Only about a hundred years this time around, if it ever actually counted as being together in the first place,' so he tosses out the first stock phrase which passes through his mind that seems appropriate to this sort of conversation, instead. "Aye, but we… drifted apart." He shrugs. "These things happen."

"I know how it is. Same thing happened with me and Alison." Despite his own retreat into the safety of stock phrases, James, unlike England, at least has the decency to squeeze Scotland's shoulder in a show of sympathy. "Still, it's a shame we never got to meet him, in the end. The way you've always talked about him, he sounds like a real character."

Scotland had been promising to introduce France – Francis – to the lads for a few years now, mostly to put an end to their persistent belief that Scotland had actually made him up. (A convenient cover for secret, undercover government work has been a favourite theory amongst them for quite some time, given that the only thing they know about Scotland's day job is that he regularly meets with the First Minister.) It seems like a ludicrous idea in retrospect, however. Scotland can't imagine France here, in his local, which is even more dingy than England's, drinking cheap lager and chatting about things like the footie, James' shitty job with Edinburgh council, or Duncan's equally shitty love life. In fact, it's difficult to imagine France anywhere in his life beyond what little he had of him before, but he's unsure whether that's a consequence of his learning a long time ago that it was pointless, and somewhat painful, to speculate otherwise and consequently losing the ability to do so, or that France has been right all along, and they just don't fit together well enough for anything more than that.

James takes a deep gulp of his beer, and then eyes Scotland contemplatively. "Might be early days yet, but, just so you know, Steve's sister Ruth's single again, and she's always had a bit of a thing for you. You do like lassies, too, don't ye?"

Scotland almost chokes on his own sip of lager. "Ah dae, but fuckin' hell James, Ruth's got tae be aboot twelve years auld."

"She's almost twenty, Aly," James says, looking vaguely baffled. "And you're, what? Twenty-six, twenty-seven, or something? It's not that big of a deal, surely?"

Twenty or not, she looks little more than a child to Scotland, but then, so does James at times, and he's in his early thirties. Besides, he's never liked getting involved with humans in that way in general, and with his own people in particular. Quite aside from the uneasy knowledge of how _fragile_ they all are that he can never quite escape, he's never been able to fully disassociate how he feels for an individual from the sense of closeness, of belonging, that naturally arises from them being, in a way, part of himself. Wales certainly appears to have discovered the knack, but then he's applied himself to a solution with a great deal more determination over the years than Scotland has ever attempted.

"Ah'll keep it in mind," Scotland says, discounting the notion immediately. "But, like ye said, it's still early days, an' Ah dunnae think Ah'm gonnae be lookin' any time soon."

Or any time in the foreseeable future, really. During the years he and France were apart the first time around, Scotland's romantic liaisons amounted to a handful of one-night stands and one attempt at a long-term relationship which had come to a crashing halt with the realisation that he was simply using Jersey as the closest substitute for the one person he wanted but couldn't have. Finding out a little later that he was playing much the same role for her hadn't made it any easier to bear.

"Anyway, enough aboot my love life, or lack o' it." It's far too depressing a subject for a Friday night – or any night, really – and Scotland casts around for a more innocuous topic of conversation, eventually going with: "Ah dunnae suppose ye've got any ideas about where might be a good place to spend a long weekend, dae ye? My brothers are expecting me to arrange something for the August bank holiday – English, not Scottish – but Ah think Ah've left it a bit too late to book anywhere decent."

* * *

Scotland's phone starts ringing whilst he's still caught in a struggle of wills with his front door.

"Jist a minute," he says pointlessly, making another lunge forward with the key. The keyhole swiftly dodges to one side to avoid it.

The phone continues to trill.

Scotland changes his angle of attack slightly, but the keyhole is seemingly one step ahead of him, and he misses again. Or maybe the key has grown somehow, and is now too big for the lock. Either way, it's far too difficult a task, so he leaves it for the fae to deal with, as their delicate fingers are much more suited for such fiddly work.

"Fuckin' hell," Scotland shouts at the increasingly desperate sounding phone. "Ah'm comin', okay!?"

He picks up the receiver just as his answer phone kicks in, and it spits out harsh squeal of interference over the distorted sound of his own voice as the message starts up.

"Hullo?" he says once the discordant jumble of noise has died down. The word echoes back to him faintly.

"Scotland?" France sounds genuinely uncertain, although Scotland has no idea who the hell else he expected could possibly have answered the call.

"Aye, what dae ye –?"

He's interrupted by a tinny clatter from the direction of his kitchen, which is soon followed by the almost inaudible patter of tiny little feet rushing across the hardwood floor of his hallway.

"Scotland?"

Several _ùruisg_ swarm towards Scotland, and begin scampering around him; the bravest few even going so far as to start tugging at the hems of his trousers.

"Did ye miss me, guys?" Scotland asks them. "Hope ye've kept the house tidy whilst Ah wis gone."

They chatter shrilly at him in answer, each of them pointing in a different direction, presumably trying to draw his attention to the work they've done in his absence. The house would be too dark to see anything even if his eyes weren't too tired to focus, but he nods and says, "Good job, lads," regardless.

"Scotland," France snaps his name this time, voice harsh and frustrated-sounding. "Are you drunk?"

"It's…" Scotland tries to add the time it took him to eat his curry, plus the time it took him to stagger home from the restaurant, on to closing time, but the maths proves too complicated. "It's very late on a Friday night, or early on a Saturday morning. Whichever it is, of course Ah'm drunk."

France doesn't reply for so long that Scotland starts to believe either one or both of them has nodded off without realising it, although a quick pinch to the webbing between his thumb and forefinger assures that it isn't him, at least.

When France eventually does speak, it's just a fragment of a sentence, cut short by a sharp clack of his teeth as though he's catching the tail end of it between them before it can escape fully. "I had hoped that –"

"Whit?" Scotland asks irritably. He's far too tired for guessing games. "Why the hell are ye callin' me noo, France? Whit could ye possibly need tae talk tae me aboot so desperately tha' it couldnae wait until mornin'?"

He receives no answer again, which leads Scotland to consider the possibility that France doesn't actually know why he phoned himself. He tries to ignore the warm thrill of hope that that thought stirs up because it's probably more likely that Netherlands is catching a nap and left France at a loose end with nothing better to do than ring his ex and not talk to him, than it is a sign that France is thinking about him, or missing him, or any of the multitude of other things that Scotland had often wished occupied France's mind whilst they were still together, but never actually had.

Scotland sighs. "Look, Ah really should be gettin' tae bed. Ah'll ring ye back tomorrow, awrite?"

"Okay," France says, quietly, then, with more force: "Thank you."

"Nae problem," says Scotland, even though he has no intention of keeping the promise he's just made. He doesn't need thrills of hope, he had enough of them before and they'd never amounted to anything, he needs to _get over this and move on_.


	8. Chapter 8

**26th July, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

"Jou never called me back," France says as soon as Scotland answers his phone.

Scotland really should start checking his caller ID instead of accepting calls willy-nilly. "Hullo, France. Nice tae hear fae ye. And naw, I didnae. Been busy. Wae work. Ye know how it is."

France somehow manages to pack whole worlds of scepticism into his answering low hum. Scotland scowls into the receiver, but can't in good conscience offer a rebuttal. His boss had given him a sizeable chunk of paperwork outlining proposals to cut the country's deficit to read through after their last meeting, but Scotland's never had a head for numbers and his concentration is shot besides, so he never managed to get past the first page, the fact that the economy's in the shitter notwithstanding. It's since become buried beneath a pile of old newspapers, magazines, and empty pizza boxes so precarious that the ùruisg daren't even go near it for fear it will collapse on top of them.

"Whit dae ye want?" he asks instead. "Ah'm guessing it's somethin' pretty important if it warrants two phone calls in less than a fortnight."

France doesn't answer for a moment, and all Scotland can hear is a faint tapping noise as though he's perhaps drumming his fingers against the side of the phone, and an even fainter conversation somewhere in the background, too quiet to decipher any words although the cadence is definitely French.

"I thought jou might be interested to know," he says eventually, his words slightly stilted and halting, "zhat I am no longer involved with _Pays-Bas_."

* * *

**1st August, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

"Ah think he thought that'd solve everythin'; that Ah'd jist drop everything an' hightail it over to Paris."

"But you told him you weren't interested and he should sod off, right?" Jersey asks. "Please tell me you told him to sod off."

"Ah didnae use those exact words," Scotland says, chuckling. "But tha' wis the general gist o' it."

"Good for you." Jersey smiles back at him, although it falters a little when she tucks her bare feet up on the sofa and they encounter one of the empty cans he'd shoved between the cushions the night before because he'd been too lazy to get up and put them in the bin. She plucks it out and places it on the cluttered coffee table before continuing: "Though I do remember you saying, oh, a couple of hundred years ago now, that you'd never go back to him again, and look how that turned out."

"We were in the middle o' a fuckin' war, and he wis… Ye never saw what a _state_ he wis in then, an'... An' I couldnae turn him away, Jers."

Jersey raises an eyebrow, and Scotland grimaces in response. Although they've never really talked about what happened back then, she more than anyone will be aware of just how little fight he was likely to have – and did – put up, whatever the circumstances.

She's kind enough not to press the point, however. "And after the war?" she asks, her tone gently inquiring.

"Stupidity," Scotland suggests, only partly joking. "Or maybe madness. That's the definition of madness, aye? Doin' the same things over and over again and expectin' different results? Ah thought that maybe if Ah wis careful enough, played by his rules, then things might change."

Jersey's mouth twists a little at the corners, inching towards a frown. "I'm not sure," she says slowly, "that he's even capable of being exclusive."

"That's not whit Ah wis expectin'," Scotland says, shaking his head. "Ah've certainly never asked for it. It's just… There's a difference between bein' committed and bein' monogamous, ya know, and Ah've only ever really wanted one o' the two. The problem is that Ah've always been both, and –"

"He's never been either?" She shifts, moving closer to the edge of the sofa. "And you've told all him this?"

"Aye." Jersey's eyebrow twitches upwards again; she knows him too well. "Ah huv," he insists. "Possibly not exactly what Ah've jist told you, but clear enough that he should have got the fuckin' message by noo."

"And you haven't spoken to him since?"

"Naw, but it turns oot he can be bloody persistent. He's started on the emails noo since Ah've stopped answerin' the phone tae him. Probably jist pissed off that Ah'm ignorin' him, though. Ah dunnae think he's ever tried this hard to talk to me about _anythin'_ before."

"Wounded pride," Jersey says, pushing herself all the way to her feet. "I don't think he's used to not being the one doing the leaving. He'll get over that soon enough, no doubt."

"Ah hope so," Scotland says with a sigh, "because he's cloggin' up ma bloody inbox at the moment."

Jersey laughs, and then leans over to press a brief, dry kiss to Scotland's forehead. "Do you want some more tea, love?"

"Please," Scotland says, handing her his mug. It's still half-full, but long since gone cold, the milk already separating to form a scuzzy film across its surface. "Ah forgot aboot this one."

He can't help but grin when she mutters something about it being a 'dreadful waste' under her breath as she takes the cup from him, and it remains in place even after she's disappeared from sight into the kitchen.

She's barely been gone more than a minute or so, however, when she calls out, "You're nearly out of milk."

"Aye, Ah know," Scotland calls back. "Ah kin pop oot tae the shop an' get some more, if you want."

"No, it should be –" The rest of Jersey's words are obscured by the muffled thud of the fridge door swinging shut. There's a slight pause, and then a sharper series of bangs follows the first as she opens and closes his cupboards. The sound makes Scotland's grin fade even before Jersey reappears in the lounge doorway and he sees her concerned expression.

He groans. "Ah know what –"

"There's no food in there _at all_," she says, sounding accusatory despite the worry softening her features.

"I hardly ever huv food in the house," Scotland rushes to reassure her. "Ah just get take-aways, mostly. Ye know Ah can't cook for shite."

She doesn't look convinced. "I know you don't need to eat, but you should. It's not healthy to –"

"Ah am eatin'," he says, nodding towards the foil containers sitting in the midst of the empty cans, dirty mugs, and other detritus amassed on his coffee table. "Look, Ah hud a curry jist last night. Ah'm not like Wales, Jers. Ah'm not fuckin' pining away over this."

Jersey does look where he's indicated, and then her gaze drifts around the room, taking in the other assorted heaps of rubbish dotted around – Scotland hasn't seen hide nor hair of the ùruisg for days, and he's beginning to suspect they've actually gone on strike to protest their unsafe working conditions – before her eyes finally settle on Scotland himself.

"I'm so used to you living like a slob that I didn't really notice how much _worse_ a state than usual everything's in before now," she says, moving to perch on the arm of Scotland's chair. "Including you."

"Hey," Scotland says, automatically defensive, before realising that he probably does look a little rougher around the edges than usual. He hasn't slept more than a couple of hours a night for the past few weeks because his mates seem to think the best way to mend a broken heart is to drink it away. Not that he's put up much of a fight every time they badger him into meeting them down at the pub, however, because it aligns so well with his own views on lager as a panacea.

"Are you sure you're doing okay?" Jersey asks, wrapping a hand around one of his. "It isn't good to keep these things bottled up, you know. You need to get it all out; have a good cry if you have to."

She looks so earnest that Scotland bites back the laughter that is his immediate response, restricting himself to a slightly strangled, "Jesus Christ, Ah've never cried over him, and Ah'm not about to start." Her expression turns sceptical, however, and he quickly adds, "Well, maybe once or twice, but the last time was during the Second World War, an' Ah think you'll agree was pretty extenuating fuckin' circumstances. Even England welled up a bit over that."

"Stop being so obtuse. I just thought that it'd probably do you good to talk to someone." When he opens his mouth to protest that he is, he's talking to her, she frowns and squeezes his hand. "Properly, Scotland. I know you're not as okay with this as you're trying to make out."

He's not, and despite the fact that he invited Jersey over precisely because, given their history, she knows more about his relationship with France than anyone else and it should be easier to tell her how much he misses him, even though he's really no further away than he ever was before, he can't. He can't precisely because, as he told her, he's not like Wales; he's always held words like that so tightly within himself that he can't even loosen them enough to spill them on to paper like his brother does.

So he just sits in silence, until eventually Jersey sighs, and brushes her other hand lightly through his hair.

"Come on, mister," she says, firmly. "You need to get out of this house. You're going to go upstairs, have a shower and a shave, put on some nice clothes, and we'll go for a meal. Then you can take me dancing afterwards." She pauses, her eyes narrowing as they quickly graze over him again; over the baggy tracksuit bottoms and faded blue T-shirt that were the only clean clothes he'd been able to find that morning. "You do have nice clothes, don't you?"

She looks so much like France in that moment – fair lashes lowered as she examines him, lips pursed, wisps of blonde hair falling forward to frame her face – that Scotland has to turn his head aside in order to catch his breath. "Course Ah dae," he says gruffly. "You dunnae think Ah meet ma bosses dressed like this, dae ye?"

Jersey runs the tips of her fingers up the sleeve of his T-shirt, thumb smoothing over the worn fabric. "I'm surprised," she says, "that he never tried to make any changes to your wardrobe."

"He made a few comments here an' there over the years, but after a while Ah think he just sucked it up and got over it." Scotland shrugs. "It's no' like we went anywhere together very often, anyways."

Jersey's fingers close around Scotland's shoulder once they reach the top of his arm. "I don't think I ever really understood the two of you." Her words are tentative, cautious, as though she expects him to react badly to them.

It echoes Scotland's own thoughts so precisely, however, that it just elicits an answering dull twinge of recognition. With distance, he's less surprised that he had found the courage to end what they had, and more that it continued for as long as it did, in whatever form.

"Nothin' tae understand, Jers," he says. "Besides, it's over now."


	9. Interlude

**28th August, 2009; Lake District, England**

It had been America's proposal, initially. He'd been caught up in the whole 'self-help' fad at the time, and England dimly recalled some talk of 'bonding' and 'team building', but had no recollection of why the hell he'd agreed with any of it, much less how he managed to persuade Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland likewise.

Twenty-odd years later, they still wasted their August bank holiday weekend holed up together, failing to improve their relationship in any appreciable way, because they were all too bloody-minded to admit that it had been an appalling, unworkable idea in the first place.

Windermere had been Scotland's suggestion for this year's trip, as the cousin of a friend of a bloke he knew from his local owned a cottage they could stay in. England had passed said cottage several times, thinking that it was an abandoned cowshed, but after an hour of driving up and down the same stretch of road, cursing Scotland for his inability to give comprehensible directions and America for ever having watched Oprah, he'd realised that, no, Scotland hadn't been lying when he'd said it was a 'little basic'.

England parked next to Scotland's beat-up Ford Escort, took a deep, fortifying breath, straightened his tie, thought longingly of being anywhere else in the world at that moment, and then forced himself to pick up his bags and get out of the car before he came to his senses and drove straight back home.

The cottage was dark, save for a small flickering light at one of the downstairs windows which suggested that it, unsurprisingly, didn't have any electricity. England's feet, presumably informed by some subconscious part of his mind which was rightfully horrified at the thought of spending an extended period of time with his brothers without even the meagre solace of the telly as a distraction, took an involuntary step back towards the car.

_It's only three days_, England reminded himself. _Three days, and then we can go back to ignoring each other's existence most of the time. We lived together for hundreds of years, and managed to survive the experience. This is a walk in the park in comparison to _that.

He carefully avoided the natural conclusion - that they'd only survived by interacting with each other as little as they could – and pushed it to one side. Whatever his personal thoughts about the upcoming weekend, their boss had thought they were a splendid idea when Scotland had let slip about their trips a couple of years before, and had been subtly urging England to continue them ever since; yet one more reason that England's common sense wasn't getting a look in.

"I understand it may be difficult, England", he'd said, "but it's for the good of the Union."

_The good of the Union_. _The good of the Union_. England mentally repeated the words like a mantra, trying to draw strength from them. _The good of the Un_–

The screech of rusty hinges as England opened the cottage door cut through his chant, making it sound less like an affirmation and more like a needle skipping over a badly scratched record. An unpleasant smell wafted out from the dark hallway beyond: mostly mould and dust, overlaid by something faint but far more pungent. Possibly dead sheep.

"England, we're in here!" Scotland shouted from somewhere in the gloom as England wrestled with the door, which seemed to have changed shape and no longer fit the doorframe properly. "Ah hope ye brought booze. We're running a bit low awready."

England gave up on the door, and followed the sound of his brother's voice to a small room illuminated by a mismatched array of candles stuck in the necks of empty beer bottles. The only furniture appeared to be an empty crate serving as a makeshift table – also covered with empties, England noted with a sinking heart – a lumpy armchair, and a narrow sofa on which his brothers were sitting; Wales on one side, and Scotland on the opposite arm, his feet propped up on the windowsill.

Scotland glanced at England over the back of the sofa, and shook his head. "If you haven't got anything to drink, you can fuck off back to London."

The thought was tempting, but England had got this far, and wasn't about to back out now Wales and Scotland knew he was here. He'd never hear the end of it, for one thing. "It's in the car. I couldn't carry everything at once." England dropped one of his bags to the floor and raised his hand in belated greeting, nodding to his brothers in turn. "Evening, Scotland. Wales."

Wales' eyes narrowed. "_Cymru_," he said, sharply. "Christ, it's been sixteen years, _Lloegr_, can you at least _pretend_ to make an effort?"

"Sorry. _Cymru_."

The name always felt strange in England's mouth, heavy and unwieldy, and it snarled on his end of his tongue. There was a joke he could make about that, but it was an old one and not in particularly good taste. He didn't want to start the weekend with an argument.

Scotland smirked at England and fished a pound coin out of his pocket, flicking it towards Wales' head. It clipped Wales' ear and then slithered down a crease in his T-shirt to rest in his lap.

"Buy yerself some fuckin' vowels, _Wales_," he said, laughing as Wales' face flushed deep red.

England bit the insides of his cheeks and forced down his own laughter, because Wales might let the jab pass now with nothing more than a muttered, "Bastard," and a swift cuff to the back of Scotland's head, but if England so much as smiled he might as well break his own jaw and save Wales the trouble.

"What took ye so long, anyways?" Scotland said, leaning away from the second cuff Wales directed his way to reinforce his point. "Me an' Wales huv been here fer hours. We were beginnin' tae think ye wurnae comin'. We were devastated, believe me."

"Crying into our beer," Wales added.

England had delayed his journey for as long as he could, finding more and more elaborate ways of killing time in the guilty hope that there'd be a report of sudden unexpected road works blocking the entire M1 if he waited long enough. He'd finally bitten the bullet and got into his car when he found himself rearranging his alphabetised spice rack by colour after cleaning the grout in his downstairs bathroom with a toothbrush.

"Traffic was appalling," he said.

Scotland looked unconvinced, but he didn't call England out on his lie, nevertheless. Perhaps, unlikely as it might have been, he didn't want to argue either. Instead, he fished a bottle of Stella out of the box by the side of the sofa, and handed it to England.

"Ye'd better get drinkin'. We huv a three pint head start."

* * *

**One bottle of Stella **

Ten minutes later, England had been thoroughly disabused of his notion that Scotland intended to make nice in any way. Clearly, his earlier oversight had been just that, and not a clumsy overture of good will as England had, admittedly somewhat optimistically, assumed.

"What the fuck are you wearin', anyway?" Scotland asked, gesturing towards England's neatly-pressed trousers with the base of his bottle, and then tipping it to point out his shirt and tie with the neck. "I did tell ye this wis gonnae be an outdoorsy sort o' holiday, didn't I? Ye know, hikin'; fishin'; clamberin' over big rocks." He swung his arm around expansively, presumably miming a big rock. "That sort o' thing."

If Scotland wasn't going to attempt be civil, then England certainly wouldn't. "You also told me that we'd be staying in your mate's 'lovely little cottage'. The only one of those words with any truth to it is 'little'."

"It's rustic," Scotland countered.

"It should be condemned. Did you notice there's a sapling growing out of the roof? Quite a sizeable one, at that."

"Ah promised ye outdoorsy, didn't Ah? It's so outdoorsy that you dunnae even need tae leave the house tae enjoy nature."

"And it smells like something died in here. I suppose you're going to tell me that I should somehow appreciate how natural that is, as well."

"There was a dead crow in the fireplace when we arrived," Wales cut in. "_Yr Alban_ threw it out into the bramble patch out back, but the smell definitely lingers."

"Wonderful. Just wonderful." England drained the last dregs of his lager and carefully placed the empty bottle on the crate-table. "I can't wait to see what delights await me upstairs."

Scotland's thick brows drew close above his nose. "Stop being such a ponce, Albion. We used to manage jist fine withoot electricity an' runnin' water –" Scotland raised his voice to drown out England's squawk of protest at that – "three days of it wulnae kill ye."

Next year was Wales' choice of destination, but the year after that, England was going to book them into a five star hotel; somewhere with hot and cold running water, room service and a spa, and to hell with what America said about suitable bonding experiences. "Did you even check this place out before you decided we should come here? Ask to look at a photo, perhaps?"

The pointed way that Scotland turned his back to England as he bent to grab them all fresh bottles was answer enough. England should have known to expect the worst as soon as Scotland had said he'd arranged this with someone in a pub; his brother had never shown the best judgement when he was drunk. He'd gone through the Great War saddled with the not-exactly-confidence-inspiring alias of Captain Wee Jock McSporran because they'd been two days from sober when they signed up and it was apparently hilarious at the time.

"I'm sure _Lloegr_ has all the proper equipment packed, _Yr Alban_," Wales said.

"All brand new, top-o'-the-line, an' still in its box, aye Iggy?"

England could only shrug, given that the accusation was entirely true.

Scotland snorted. "Ye've got so soft lately. Maybe it'll do ye some good tae rough it oot fer a wee while."

* * *

**Two bottles of Stella**

"Northern Ireland's really late," England said, checking his watch as he finished his second bottle.

"He's not coming." Wales lit a cigarette, and squinted at England through the smoke. "Apparently, he and _Iwerddon_ have a thing on this weekend."

"A _thing_?"

Wales shrugged one shoulder, and leaned back in his seat, blowing smoke rings. "Yeah, can't remember what it was exactly. _Yr Alban_ might know."

"A thing," England repeated dully. If he'd known a thing was all it took, he'd be wearing his pyjamas and slippers and listening to 'A Book at Bedtime' on Radio 4 whilst drinking a last cup of tea instead of lukewarm Stella right now. Granted, his kettle wouldn't be de-scaled and his grout would still be covered in mildew, but he thought it was a small price to pay.

There was a muffled thump from the floor above, followed by a long string of extremely creative swearwords. "Jist a heads up, lads, but the toilet dusnae flush, either," Scotland shouted down the stairs a moment later. "We might need tae put the bramble patch tae further use, instead."

There was a beat of silence following Scotland's words, and then Wales chuckled. "Yeah, I bet _Gogledd_'s kicking himself. I mean, who'd want to miss this?"

* * *

**Two bottles of Stella; Two glasses of whiskey, single malt **

"Manic Street Preachers."

"Whiny, depressin' shit. An' then they sold out."

"Their music's political, not depressing. And if by 'sold out', you mean 'achieved what every band….'" Wales shook his head. "Never mind, I'm not going to win with this one, am I? How about the Stereophonics?"

"Never managed tae top their first album."

"Tom Jones?"

"One –" Scotland marked the point with his middle finger, raised towards Wales – "Tom Jones inae a band. And two -" he added his index finger – "Tom Jones, Wales? Really? Yer tha' desperate awready?"

Wales scowled, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Let's see you do better, _Yr Alban_. My people have the souls of _poets_."

"Dunno know where they're hidin' those, then." Scotland ignored Wales' spluttered sound of protest as he continued with: "Okay, here goes. Snow Patrol, Biffy Clyro, Belle & Sebastian, Franz Ferdinand, The…"

Scotland continued his list with some time, with Wales scoffing at every suggested name, or dismissing them with a curt jerk of his hand. This was an old argument – most of their arguments _were_ – and one which had never been settled to anyone's satisfaction. Scotland was usually able to cow Wales into submission by dint of being able to shout much louder than him, but that was just a technical victory and one which Wales was unwilling to concede.

Unlike many of their other arguments, this one very rarely became violent, however, unless Scotland was in a particularly belligerent mood, Wales was closer to the end of his usually plentiful supply of patience than usual, or they were both too drunk to see straight.

Once, when all three of those conditions aligned on a day which had also conspired to shit all over England from a great height, the argument had devolved into a near riot which had managed to deeply embarrass the brothers' boss and got them all banned from Spain's house for a couple of years.

This didn't look as though it would be one of those days, exactly, though judging by the way Wales' face was steadily darkening and the way Scotland's hands were slowly opening and closing as though they wanted to make fists, England thought it may well end up with things being thrown. As the cottage really didn't need any more holes in its walls where no holes were ever intended to be, he thought it prudent to step in before the situation deteriorated any further.

"The Beatles," he said.

Wales and Scotland's mouths clamped shut almost in unison, and they both glared at England for a moment before Scotland growled and threw his hands up in the air. "Fuck it, England. Ye always do this."

"Do what?" England asked, re-crossing his legs and then straightening the wrinkles from his trousers with exaggerated care. "Cite the name of what I believe to be the best English band? I thought that was the whole point of this conversation."

"I told you we should always start with a Beatles handicap," Wales muttered under his breath.

"No Beatles? Well, how about The Rolling Stones. Or The Kinks. Perhaps the Sex Pistols. Or if you want to skip ahead a couple of decades, maybe the Stone Roses, or Oasis, or –"

"Ye suck the joy oot o' everythin', England," Scotland said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. "Yer a man-shaped fun sponge. Always huv been."

"No, no, this is fun," England insisted, unable, as ever, to stop himself when Scotland looked as if he were about to burst something important; sod the '_good of the Union_'. "How about we do 'best actors' next? Or 'best authors', perhaps?"

Scotland stood up suddenly from his perch on the sofa arm, scattering the bottle top tower he'd painstakingly constructed on the windowsill. "Ah'm going fer a slash," he said. "Don't either o' ye fuckers dare touch ma drink whilst I'm gone."

"We could always try 'best male voice choir' when you get back," Wales suggested.

"Fuck you too, Wales!" Scotland shouted back from the doorway.

* * *

**Three bottles of Stella; Three glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red **

England didn't even realise he was crying until Wales handed him a tissue and clumsily squeezed his knee in a way that was probably meant to be comforting, but was actually rather painful.

"Dunnae coddle him, Wales," Scotland said, his voice thick with derision. "Ye know he always gets like this, an' he gets over it again soon enough. Ye kin practically set yer watch by it: couple o' hours in, and on go the waterworks."

England's breath hitched in his chest as he tried to reply. "I– I –"

Scotland's face suddenly loomed in front of him, far too close for comfort, but thankfully England's tears distorted it into near indistinctness: a pink blur with a dark slash for a mouth, and two hazy green dots where his eyes should be.

"Ye must be the only person in the entire fuckin' country who still gives a shit aboot this, England. Ah mean, he wis a lovely wee lad back in the day –"

"He cut all the strings on my harp, once," Wales said.

"He wis a lovely wee lad apart fae that time he vandalised Wales' harp –"

"And he used to take the piss out of my poetry. Read it out in a silly voice. Didn't sound anything like me."

"He was a lovely wee lad wae guid taste, but he grew up to be an enormous prat. He drives ye _insane_, England; ye should be glad ye got shot o' him when ye did."

England tried to force words which may have been 'ungrateful git' or something else entirely past the constriction in his throat, but all he could manage was a series of gulping sobs.

"Fer fuck's sake." Scotland's hand hovered somewhere near England's shoulder, but quickly retreated without making contact. "They all grew up and left eventually, anyways. Ye've never been like this aboot Australia, or New Zealand, or Canada. Jist punch him, fuck him –"

England shook his head vigorously, and choked out: "It's not– It's not like –"

"Fuck him," Scotland continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "whitever it takes tae get it oot o' yer system, because we were sick o' hearin' aboot it two hundred years ago. You dunnae see me and Wales cryin' aboot him, dae ye? An' he was as much oors as yers."

"I cried when he broke my harp," Wales said, pressing another tissue into England's hand.

* * *

**Three bottles of Stella; Three glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red; Two cans of Strongbow; One cigarette **

Talking to Scotland was a conversational minefield for England at the best of times, and not one he had the necessary skills to navigate for long when he wasn't completely sober. He couldn't recall precisely what he'd said to set his brother off this time – William Wallace rang a faint bell, but England would have to be suicidal-level drunk to mention that name in Scotland's presence unless it was in the context of mocking Mel Gibson's portrayal of him in Braveheart – but here he was, nevertheless, pinned to the floor with Scotland sitting on his chest.

Scotland was taller and heavier than England, but England had fought with him for as far back as he could remember and knew all of his weak spots. Unfortunately, Scotland had fought with England just as long, and knew that he knew. He caught hold of England's wrist before England could jab a thumb in the back of his knee.

"Ye've always been a slippery wee fucker," Scotland spat as England scrabbled to find enough purchase on the floor to roll out from beneath him. "Are ye gonnae help me here, Cymru?"

"I'm not –"

"Don't let him drag you into this, Wales." England tried to look beseechingly at Wales over Scotland's shoulder, although the effect was probably somewhat ruined by his rapidly swelling right eye. He could take either of them on their own, given time, but he stood little chance if they banded together.

"_Cymru_," Wales corrected quietly. "Come on, _Yr Alban_, let him go. We're supposed to be trying to get along. For the good of the Union, and all that."

Clearly, their boss had been giving Wales the exactly the same pep talks as England. He nodded encouragingly. "Yes, the go–"

Scotland clamped a hand over England's mouth, cutting off the rest of his words. "Yeah, the Union. Dae ye no' remember whit it was like bein' forced tae live wae him all the time? How he ordered us aroon, complained all the bloody time about every wee thing we did, treated us as though we were just cluttering up the place, even though we hud never hud a fuckin' choice aboot bein' there in the first place.

"Or how he tried to steal yer language fae ye." Scotland's voice dropped, becoming low and wheedling.

England could see what Scotland was trying to do, so he bit Scotland's palm in an attempt to make him let go. Scotland's fingers merely tightened around England's face.

"That's not _exactly_ what happened," Wales said, but his voice was a little shaky.

Wales was the calmest of the three of them by far, and usually slow to anger, but he'd had quite a bit to drink and Scotland knew how to press his buttons, just as thoroughly as he knew how to press England's.

England kicked his legs out again and twisted his body sharply to one side in another bid for freedom. Scotland rode the movement easily, and smirked down at England before saying: "He definitely stole Arthur fae ye; name and all."

Livid spots of colour had appeared high on Wales' cheekbones, and his nostrils flared with every deep breath he took. "That was all such a long time ago. W– Water under the bridge. I think we all –"

"Do ye know whit he said jist a few weeks ago?" Scotland's tone was now light and conversational, and he winked slyly at England. "He said that yer rugby team is complete shit nowadays."

"_Twll tin_," Wales snarled, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

* * *

**Three bottles of Stella; Three glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red; Rum (straight from the bottle, amount unknown); Two cans of Strongbow; Three cigarettes; One cigar **

Wales was in the kitchen, singing something maudlin in Welsh. Or possibly vomiting. It was hard to tell the difference either way.

England took another swallow of rum, wincing as it washed over all the sore spots inside his mouth where his teeth had cut in. He might be smarting from his wounds, but the fact that the fight had sobered him up to an unacceptable level was far more upsetting.

"Try pressin' this against yer eye," Scotland said, handing England a can of Strongbow. "Might help bring doon the swellin' a bit."

He sat down next to England on the sofa; far too close, with his right hip and thigh pressed up against England's. England shuffled further down the sofa in an attempt to put some distance between them, but Scotland followed him and attached himself to England's side again.

"Scotland, I –"

Scotland flung a heavy arm around England's shoulders, and said, "Ye know that fight didnae mean anythin', right? Ah still love ye, Runt."

England grimaced, and shrugged the arm off. Scotland thought a quick hug, an unconvincing expression of affection, and an offer of alcohol was sufficient to absolve him of any blame for the trouble he so often caused. Strangely, it seemed to work the majority of the time, but England's forgiveness was not so easily bought.

"No, you don't."

"Hey, yer ma brother. O' course Ah love ye!" Scotland pasted on what he considered his most winning smile, and nudged England with his shoulder. "Even though yer a twat."

"I seem to remember you drenching me with gravy and leaving me out in the forest for the wolves to eat when we were kids."

"It wis a _joke_!"

"It happened more than once, Scotland. And then you abandoned us all to Rome. Very brotherly."

"I hud tae take care o' me and mine, ye ken," Scotland said, scowling. "It was nothin' personal."

"I didn't see you rushing to my defence when I fell into the Frog's greasy clutches, either."

"Ye need tae loosen up a bit; yer always so fuckin' gloomy," Scotland said, tugging on England's tie until England batted his hands away. "It's nae wonder ye dunnae huv any friends."

"Thank you, Scotland. You're always such a comfort to me." England got up from the sofa and moved unsteadily back to the armchair. "I feel so much better now."

"Any time," Scotland said, toasting England with his cider.

They sat in silence for a time – England swigging his rum, and Scotland building a low wall out of empty cans – until it was broken by Scotland clearing his throat, no doubt preparing to dispense another pearl of useless familial wisdom.

"You should invite the weans over fer Christmas dinner this year," Scotland said, his eyes firmly fixed on his engineering project. "Ye always say ye will, but ye never dae."

England had been expecting Scotland to say something entirely different, and the only response he could summon for a moment was dumb shock. He eventually managed to ask, "Why?"

"Well, it might stop ye mopin' about America no' being there like ye usually do at Christmas, an' yer always complainin' about bein' lonely, anyways –"

"I do not!" England spluttered.

"No' when you're sober, perhaps, but Ah remember _everything_, England. Hell, why dae ye no' go all out and huv a really big do; ask Canada tae bring that new mystery boyfriend o' his, try invitin' Ireland again."

England let the thought settle in his, admittedly slightly foggy, mind for a moment or two, and it still seemed like a halfway decent suggestion afterwards. "I'll think about it," he said warily.

"Admit it, Ah give fantastic advice. Ah'm the best big brother ever." Scotland grinned. "An', England? If ye tell everyone yer no' gonnae cook, they might even come."

* * *

**Five bottles of Stella; Four glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red; Three cans of Strongbow; Rum (straight from bottle, amount unknown); Two cans of Boddingtons; Small bottle of liquid, provenance uncertain (possibly aftershave); Seven cigarettes; One cigar**

"_Lloegr_! _Lloegr_! England!" Wales shouted from the darkness behind England. "At least come and put your trousers back on! You'll catch your death of cold!"

England put his head down and kept running in as close to a straight line as he was still capable of.

The fae had always been much better company than his brothers, but they always disappeared whenever his brothers were around – even his unicorn abandoned him – possibly because, unlike England, they had turned their backs on magic centuries ago; thrown their gift away for nothing but fleeting pleasure.  
However, a thought had bubbled to the top of England's slightly jumbled and completely pickled mind: There was a magical creature rumoured to make Windermere its home. A second, less coherent but much more urgent, thought had closely followed the first: He needed to find it. And possibly spend the rest of the weekend with it instead of his brothers.

Eventually, England ran out of steam and had to stop to catch his breath, and a few minutes later, a diffuse light illuminated a ragged circle of the scrubby grass at his feet. It slowly grew brighter – if no more steady – as Scotland's heavy footfalls became audible, Wales' quicker, lighter steps following behind.

"England, ya numpty, whit the fuck are ye doin'?" Scotland asked. "Ah huvnae seen ye move tha' fast fer aboot fifty years. I'm surprised ye huvnae hud a heart attack."

England tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherent order, but "Tizzie Wizzie," proved to be the best he could manage.

"Whit? Are you gonnae be sick? Because if ye are, it's best ye get it over an' done wae oot here."

"'m looking for the Tizzie Wizzie." England treated the words as if they were made of glass, moving his mouth around each one with the utmost care, so Scotland could understand him, slow as he was. "'s a magical creature."

"Lookin' for the Tizzie Wizzie. Which is a magical creature." Scotland said in the tone of a parent humouring a small child who believed there was a monster under their bed. "Sure, let's all search for the Tizzie Wizzie, England."

"What does it look like, _Ll_- _Lloegr_?" Wales asked, crouching down to shine his torch under a scrubby bush.

"'s like a little bit like a hedgehog, but with wings –" Scotland started to chuckle, but quickly smothered it with the back of his hand – "and a long bushy tail. Not that you two'll be much help, anyway. Can't see this stuff anymore, can you?" England asked, snatching Scotland's torch from him and then shining it in his face. "'Cause you're not pure; always carryin' on with France and so on."

Wales snickered. "That's not how it wo–"

"We kin hold torches for you, then, stuff like tha'," Scotland said, elbowing Wales in the side as he stepped forward to stand at England's shoulder. "Come on, are we goin' tae look fer this thing or no'? It's fuckin' freezing oot here."

England squinted up at his brother, suspicious at the interruption, but Scotland's expression was bland and he looked as innocent as he was capable of, so England chalked the unwarranted violence towards Wales up as just another instance of Scotland being a wanker, and dismissed it from his mind. "Let's go."

The search was more fruitful than England had dared to hope. They were sidetracked a few times by Wales' excited discoveries of what turned out to be oddly shaped rocks, but England found the Tizzie Wizzie by pure happenstance when he sat down to have another breather.

After England had vented his frustration by kicking a tree and swearing loudly at the blameless Wales who happened to be standing behind him at the time, and checked that his arse wasn't covered in puncture marks, he picked up the Tizzie Wizzie and held it tight, crushing its delicate wings against his chest.

"Tizzie Wizzie," he said, laughing with the sheer delight of finally having some decent company again.

"That's fantastic, England. Ah'm happy fer ye, really, Ah am." Scotland said, rolling his eyes. "Noo, kin we please get back inside before ma bollocks drop off?"

* * *

**Two aspirins; One glass of water **

The cold light of day revealed the alleged Tizzie Wizzie to be nothing more than a slightly confused hedgehog with two leaves stuck to its back, and cut through the back of England's skull like a band saw. After a couple of false starts, he managed to stagger into the kitchen to share a cold can of beans with a rather wan-looking Wales. Scotland was doing something outside which seemed to involve a lot of crashing around to the accompaniment of a loud and off-key rendition of '_The Flower of Scotland_'.

Wales groaned, and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, pushing it forward so that it covered his eyes. "He's very… chipper this morning. I don't know how he does it."

England passed their one and only fork back to Wales. "Maybe we can push him in the lake. Make it look like an accident. If we're lucky, he might sink."

"Hmm, I wouldn't go that far." Wales frowned. "He's just –"

The crashing grew louder and louder, finally culminating in Scotland bursting in through the kitchen door, wielding a map. He was wearing his everyday kilt and scuffed walking boots, which were covered in something whose smell overwhelmed even the lingering stench of rotten crow.

"Nice to see you two layabouts huv finally seen fit tae crawl oot o' yer beds. Ah've already been oot, gettin' the lay o' the land, whilst you wasted the best part o' the day." He slammed the map down on the rickety little table Wales and England were seated at, and then began tracing a path with his finger which traversed some scarily tightly-packed contour lines. "Noo, here's the route Ah've planned fer today…"

Wales leant around Scotland's back as he chattered on, and caught England's eye. "It'd work better if we stuffed his pockets full of rocks first," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

**1st September, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

It definitely hadn't been the worst bank holiday weekend he'd spent with his brothers. In fact, Scotland was beginning to think it had actually been rather successful. They were all still on speaking terms – as loosely defined as that state might well be between the three of them – none of them had ended up in traction, and Scotland had got drunk enough to finally tell England exactly what he thought he should do regarding America.

Granted, he'd also been drunk enough to forget that he and France weren't exactly on the best of terms for a moment and suggest that England invite him around on Boxing Day, and Wales had been drunk enough to almost say something completely fucking disastrous to England, but, then again, England was never likely to actually take his advice on the first, and he seemed to have forgotten all about the second.

Still, it was good to be home. Such protracted contact with England always served to remind him how grateful he was for devolution, no matter how much he might grouse about the concomitant increase in paperwork.

He picks up the few envelopes scattered across his doormat before he kicks the front door shut behind him, absent-mindedly opening them as he wanders through to the lounge. The first couple are from his bank, trying to get him to transfer to a new account and flog him yet another credit card respectively, and he deposits them next to the TV as he passes it without bothering to read them any further. The next is an invitation to some sort of function at Buckingham Palace – no doubt just another meet and greet with diplomats and tiny glasses of champagne that aren't worth the time it takes to drink them; England will be more than happy to attend on his own – which he slips into his pocket so he doesn't forget to reply to it, something which is expected of him even though he always declines.

The first thing he notices about the last letter is that it's written on paper that's even thicker and creamier than that sent from the Palace. There's a vaguely familiar scent wafting up from it that he can't put a name to it until he unfolds the pages and recognises the elegant, flowing script covering them. He quickly checks the envelope: the stamp and postmark are both French, and the same hand had written his address, albeit without his name heading it, which, at least, makes sense, as Scotland's fairly certain that France has no idea which human name he usually uses nowadays.

He quickly skims the first page, and is unsurprised to discover that the letter seems to be simply a reiteration of all the messages France has left on his answer phone – expressing his puzzlement regarding what he seems to see as Scotland's sudden change of heart regarding their relationship, and reminding him that they're both at a loose end yet again – although his reminiscences about their past encounters takes such a pornographic turn towards the end of the third paragraph that Scotland has to hurriedly refold the paper and shove it back inside its envelope before he's tempted to read on further.

He holds it tightly between his hands, but can't quite bring himself to rip it in two as he thinks he should, because the few letters France had sent him before over the years had crumbled into dust long ago. It's a ridiculously sentimental notion, and one that he shouldn't indulge himself in, but he finds himself tucking the letter behind the clock on his mantelpiece, regardless.

* * *

**4th October, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

"Get ouo o' bed, ya lazy sod," Scotland growls, poking at the duvet-covered lump with his foot.

The lump shifts, inching away from the contact, but stops short at the edge of the bed. A low moan emanates from somewhere within it, followed by a plaintive, "_Brawd_…"

"_Bràthair_," Scotland replies, mimicking the tone. "Ye promised ye'd dae this." Deciding that a change of tactics is in order, he grabs hold of the end of the duvet. "It's the least ye kin dae tae repay me fer takin' full bloody advantage o' ma hospitality yesterday."

His attempt to yank the duvet away is foiled by Wales pulling it hard in the other direction, tucking it more tightly around his head. A brief tug of war ensues, from which Scotland emerges victorious, and Wales is left to suffer the ignominy of defeat in a crumpled heap on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Wales glares up at Scotland with sleep-blurred eyes as he starts to struggle to his feet. "You are such a wanker."

"Stop whinin'." Scotland grabs hold of Wales' elbow to hurry him the rest of the way. "Ye used tae get up earlier than this on a Sunday tae go tae church."

"Yeah, well, that was church," Wales says, tugging his arm free of Scotland's grip once he's found his balance. "This is football. Pub football."

The dismissive note in Wales' voice rankles, but Scotland manages to keep most of the resulting irritation out of his own as he says, "We're doon a man, an' we'll need tae forfeit the match if ye dunnae come. Ah know ye cannae play fer shite, but we're desperate."

"The only reason I'm even considering it is because you're my brother, _Yr Alban_; your persuasive skills are severely lacking." Wales breathes out sharply through his nose, eyebrows arching as they lift towards his tangled fringe. "Jesus, if it's really that important to you, then okay. But only on the condition that you make me a cuppa first."

* * *

"Ah've made ye a bacon sandwich, too, because –"

Scotland's words still along with his feet as two observations strike him almost simultaneously upon crossing the lounge's threshold: firstly, that Wales is wearing shorts so brief that they barely even qualify for the name anymore, and secondly, he's idly flicking through the stack of letters that Scotland had meant to move to a more suitable location the day before but had clearly forgotten to do so.

"You're a fantastic big brother?" Wales finishes for him, half-turning from the mantelpiece to favour Scotland with a slightly crooked smile. "That is what you were going to say, isn't it?"

"Aye," Scotland says, vaguely, his attention caught by the movement of Wales' fingers; the way they linger over paper that Scotland knows is almost as smooth as silk.

The sight makes heat creep across Scotland's skin, radiating out from the pit of his stomach, and his breath curdles at the back of his throat, because the knowledge of his own weakness is shameful enough, but for Wales to know about it too is –

"You never told me he was writing to you." Wales' voice is soft, and his hands are gentle as he takes the plate and mug Scotland's carrying from him.

Scotland imagines that his expression will be gentle with concern, too, but he can't bring himself to raise his eyes to look. "Didnae seem important," he says. "It's isnae important."

"You haven't even opened most of them."

"Nae point, it'll just be more o' the same old shite."

"But you've kept them all anyway?"

Scotland has no answer to that; he's meant to throw each one out as it arrived but somehow they always ended up behind the clock on the mantelpiece, regardless. Five of them now, all written on what he presumes is the same expensive stationery, given the quality of the envelopes, and all bearing the same faint scent. He can't even begin to follow the reasoning behind the decision, as he isn't even consciously aware of ever making it.

There's a faint clink of crockery as Wales sets his breakfast down on the coffee table, and then he lightly touches Scotland's shoulder. "Scotland, you can –"

Scotland ducks out from beneath Wales' hand as he sees his brother's other arm circling around out of the corner of his eye. "If ye try tae hug me, Ah'll punch ye," he growls, warningly.

"Bloody hell, you really are a wanker," Wales says, voice wavering with barely-suppressed laughter. "See if I ever try and be nice to you again."

"Ye dunnae need tae be nice tae me, Wales," Scotland assures him. "It's bloody weird enough that Ah've got England pretendin' that he urgently needs to talk to me aboot work every other week without you gettin' all sentimental on me as well. Ah'm fine, Ah'm coping, and if Ah ever feel the need tae hug anyone, Ah'll go and see Jers because she doesn't smell like wet sheep."

"Twat." Wales chuckles as he moves away to pick up his bacon sandwich. "Fuck, _Yr Alban_," he says after a moment, "what the hell have you done to this poor bacon? It's not supposed to shatter when you bite it, you know."

Scotland turns around to remonstrate that if the service isn't up to Wales' exacting standards, then he's more than welcome to make his own damn food in the future, and has to clamp his eyes shut almost immediately. "If ye need tae wear those shorts, Wales, then for fuck's sake, dunnae bend doon."

* * *

Wales hops from foot to foot beside the pitch, alternating between rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. "Fuckin' hell, it's cold," he says, the end of each word punctuated by the sharp clack of his chattering teeth.

"Yer as bad as England," Scotland says, surreptitiously pulling his own hoodie a little closer around himself whilst Wales is distracted. "Soft southerners, the both of ye. Maybe if ye wurnae jist wearin' knickers then –"

"They're not knickers," Wales snaps. "They're athletic shorts, cut for… ease of movement. You did give me the impression we'd be playing inside."

"Sorry?" Scotland had to concede that he'd maybe bent the truth just a little, but he'd been desperate – half of the city seemed to have been laid low by the flu or some sort of stomach bug that's been going around – and Wales had been his very last option, seeing as though the rest of the team had vetoed his asking England again, no matter that he's easily ten times the player Wales is. "Ye'll warm up soon enough once we start playin'."

Wales grunts, not sounding particularly mollified. "And why is no one else here? Are you sure you've got the right day?"

"Bloody hell, aye, Ah'm sure Ah've got the right day," Scotland says, nudging Wales hard enough with his shoulder that his brother loses his footing and staggers forward a step. "We're jist a bit early, is all."

Wales glowers at him as he fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lighting one without offering them to Scotland. He inhales deeply, and then blows out the smoke in a ring, watching it rise until it dissipates into the grey of the overcast sky.

"So, about _Ffrainc_," he starts, head still tipped back, before Scotland rushes to interrupt him with, "Ah thought we agreed no' tae talk aboot that anymore."

"No, we agreed not to hug. I made no promises that I wouldn't continue to bug you about him."

"Fuck, remember the days when we all kept oor noses oot o' each others' business?" Scotland says, groaning emphatically. "Ah miss those days."

"Sorry, _brawd_." Wales snickers. "I just thought you might be interested that I saw him last week."

Scotland _shouldn't_ be interested, but he asks, "So how wis he?" nevertheless.

"Pissed off, but then so was _Lloegr_. Business as usual, I guess, right?"

"Oh." Although Scotland hadn't even considered before now that France might be affected beyond the frustration that has been evident in all their interactions since July, he tries to tell himself that he isn't disappointed, ignoring the way stomach drops a little as though he is. "Okay."

"He did ask after you, though," Wales says, smirking a little. "Apparently, he hasn't been able to get hold of you lately. Seemed a bit put out by that in particular."

"Jers says that's jist wounded pride," Scotland says, dismissively. "Ah'm surprised he's kept it up this long, but Ah dunnae think it'll last beyond whoever he hooks up wae next."

"Jesus, _Yr Alban_, you can't honestly think that's all it is." His eyes widen slightly as though shocked. "I mean, you guys were together for centuries, and –"

"We hud sex every so often fer a few centuries," Scotland corrects. "It's no' even close tae bein' the same thing."

He's tired of explaining this over and over again. He really has no idea where his friends and family ever got the idea that it was anything more than that, especially recently.

Wales opens his mouth, but whatever word he'd been forming in response collapses into a soft sigh, puffing out his cheeks momentarily. "I guess you know best," he says after a moment's silence. "But I really did get the impression it was more than just that."


	11. Chapter 11

**30th November, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

Scotland tries one last time to flatten his hair, but when he lifts his hand again, it springs up into its usual disarray almost instantly. He rubs at his jaw afterwards, several day's worth of stubble rasping against his palm, and briefly contemplates shaving before deciding that he's running late enough already.

He never usually goes out St Andrew's Day – alcohol and patriotism are a particularly heady mixture and the last time he did, he woke up face down in a gutter two days after the fact – but Steve's band are playing at the pub, and James has promised to bundle him into a taxi if it starts to look like he won't be able get home under his own steam.

"Fuck it," he says to his reflection, "that'll need tae dae."

The _ùruisg_ seem over-excited, squeaking and jabbering at him as they follow him downstairs, and nipping at his fingers as he picks up his keys and wallet from the shelf by the front door.

"Calm doon, guys," he says, shaking them away gently. "Ah wulnae be long. Well, hopefully Ah wulnae be long."

The reason for their agitation becomes clear when he steps outside, and sees the figure sitting on his garden wall, blond hair a bright spot of colour in the darkening evening, illuminated by the street lamp standing on the pavement beyond.

* * *

One of Scotland's hands is reaching for the doorknob, the other fumbling in his pocket for his keys, before he stops himself short.

France actually coming to see him in person is something he hadn't thought to prepare for, because it's so far outside his realms of experience that the possibility of it occurring had never even crossed his mind. He sincerely doubts that his current inclination towards retreating into his house like a tortoise hiding in its shell – and then spending however long it takes for France to get fed up and go away peeking at him through the curtains and frantically hoping he doesn't ring the doorbell – is the best way to deal with the situation, however.

"This is fuckin' stupid," he mutters to himself. All too often before, he had let his life be shaped by the direction of France's whims, which was pathetic enough then, he's since realised, and is doubly so now, when he's not beholden to him in any way, shape or form. He wants to go to the pub so he's damn well going to go to the pub, and screw whatever plans France might have otherwise.

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and marches down his path with his eyes fixed firmly in front of him. He still notes a flash of gold out of the corner of one of them, however; still hears the subdued impact of France's shoes hitting the tarmac as he gets to his feet and the rustle of his clothes as he moves. Still, Scotland manages to reach his gate, although his fingers do seem to seize up as he wraps them around its latch, tightening to the point where the metal digs painfully into the palm of his hand but nevertheless apparently unable to tip it. It's too soon – far too soon – because this had been difficult enough at a remove of pretended indifference and with hundreds of miles between them, but he's not ready for this. Not ready for France be so close suddenly that he can hear him breathing – a little too shallow and a little too fast – and smell that he's wearing the same scent that had clung to the letters he sent, which almost feels like a deliberate cruelty because –

"_Écosse_."

And the name – the inherent dismissiveness and implication of distance in the use of it – is a blessing, because rising irritation floods in to drown the warmer feelings which were beginning to bubble up in Scotland's chest unbidden.

"_An Fhraing_," he replies in kind, nodding his head curtly in greeting. It's easy enough now, he discovers, to open the gate and stride through it, even though the movement brings him so close to France that the other nation's shoulder briefly brushes against his chest. It's just a glancing touch which Scotland barely even registers before it's gone again, but it awakens every nerve in his body to jangling awareness anyway.

It is a mistake, however, to think that any of measure of irritation might provide enough of a buffer that he can turn to face France without consequence afterwards. Christ, but he's beautiful in the pale lamplight, eyes shining wild and shadows accentuating the sharpness that obvious frustration has already lent to his expression. Scotland has to thrust his hands into his coat pockets in an attempt to combat the resulting urge to reach out for him. It's a familiar enough impulse, and not entirely surprising, but he's had enough practice over the years in subduing it that he knows it will pass soon enough, regardless.

"So jou're not dead, zhen," France says, quietly. "Although _Pays de Galles_ had assured me zhat was indeed zhe case, I had started to wonder."

"Naw, Ah'm not. Ah jist dunnae want tae speak tae ye right noo, is all. Ah would huv thought that wis crystal fucking clear by now," Scotland snaps back. "Oh, an' he prefers tae be called _Cymru_ again nowadays, by the way. An' Ah'm Scotland, in case ye'd forgotten."

France's face darkens further, and the flush inches down his neck to pool at the hollow of his throat as his hands clench into fists. "It's perfectly clear," he says, the sneer that twists his top lip distorting his words slightly. "Although, after all zhese years, I thought jou'd have the decency to –"

Scotland laughs, he can't help himself, though it's not born out of humour. "Well, Ah'd thought that ye might have the decency tae actually listen tae me fer once," he says after he's managed to catch his breath again, "though fuck knows what'd given me tha' impression. When Ah asked ye fer some time, that wusnae code fer 'a couple o' weeks, and then feel free tae commence badgerin' me at every opportunity thereafter', ye know. Because it wis years, France, centuries, and Ah would've hoped ye'd understand that Ah'd need an opportunity tae get ma head straight first. Ye really huvnae been helpin' wae that."

France rakes his hair back roughly from his face with clawed fingers; a forceful, impatient gesture that Scotland hasn't seen him make for a long time, and which speaks silent volumes about the depths of his disquiet. A small part of Scotland, the same one he's desperately been trying to ignore over the past few months, thrills at the sight, because he can't remember the last time something he did affected France to this extent, enough to disturb his tightly-held composure and force him to react. That it's anger causing it barely seems to matter.

"So, am I right in understanding zhat I get no say in this?" France almost growls. "Jou decide it's over, and so it is?"

"Pretty much," Scotland says, voice roughening to match France's tone, "because Ah'm the only one who hud anything invested in it, as far as Ah kin see."

He shakes his head, and that's meant to be an end to the matter, but apparently there are words beyond 'So please piss off back to Paris and leave me alone' piling up at the back of his throat, because when he opens his mouth again, he finds himself saying, "This is the first time ye've ever jist dropped by tae see me, did ye know that? Even when ye were in the country, ye never even bothered tae give me a call unless ye needed a lift fae the bloody airport. An' yet, whenever ye wanted me tae, Ah wis supposed tae jist drop everythin' and hurry over tae wherever ye needed me tae be, and damn the expense an' the fucking inconvenience o' it. And Ah always did, because Ah'm a fuckin' numpty, apparently.

"Ye dunnae get tae decide because Ah'm sure ye'd huv been happy if we carried on the way we were ferever, but Ah'd jist got so bloody tired o' it all. Ah wis tired o' bein' picked up an' then dropped again when it suited ye, and tired o' doin' everything' yer way so there wis nae room fer me anymore. Ah'm sure ye'll find somebody else who's more than willing tae step intae ma shoes, if that's whit ye want, but Ah'm done wae it, Ah really am."

France opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything, and although he still looks angry, there's another emotion vying for prominence in his expression – smoothing out the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, and slackening the harsh line of his mouth a little – that Scotland can't quite put a name to.

He can't help but wonder what France had been thinking would happen after he turned up out of the blue like this. More than likely, sadly, that Scotland would be so overcome by the mere sight of him that he'd drag him into his house, push him down onto a bed, and then proceed to fuck him into the mattress, because that was what had been expected of him before, and Scotland had always tried his best to meet all of France's expectations in the past, so really, he has nobody to blame but himself if that is the case.

A few more minutes tick by in which France fails to say anything at all, and Scotland begins to become aware that he's unwittingly fulfilling yet another of those old expectations just by standing there and waiting until France finds his voice again: the expectation that he has no other obligations in his life besides France; nothing that can't be put on hold whenever the other nation deems him worthy of gracing with his presence.

"Look, if you really dae want tae talk, then Ah guess… Ah guess we kin dae that some time, but no' now. Ah've really got tae go," he says, turning on his heel. "My mate's band's got a gig doon at the pub tonight, and Ah'm gonnae miss his set if Ah dunnae get ma arse in gear."

He's already started walking away before he's struck by the realisation that he hadn't even had to consider whether or not he could actually do so; something which makes him think that he might just be able to do this after all. He might be able to move the fuck on this time.

He soon hears France hurrying to catch him up, however, and then a rather breathless: "Do jou mind if I join jou?"

Christ, all the years Scotland hasn't had the courage to ask France to go _anywhere_ with him, never mind the pub, and now, under these circumstances, he just invites himself? It's on the tip of his tongue to say, 'Yes,' to perhaps voice the, 'Piss off,' that he hadn't been able to earlier, but eventually he just shrugs. At the end of the day, he doubts that he can really stop France from doing anything he's made his mind up to do, and it's bound to be too noisy for any attempts to continue their conversation, anyway.

* * *

Any lingering doubts that Scotland might have had that he'd made a fucking stupid decision were washed away the instant they approach the pub and he is hit by a wave of euphoria so intense that he has to stop for a moment until he's managed to separate himself from it sufficiently that he feels like a distinct entity again.

France looks up at him questioningly. "Are jou all right?"

"Aye, Ah'm grand," Scotland says, grinning as energy crackles through him like electricity. "Come on, ye cannae tell me that you dunnae feel absolutely fuckin' amazin' on Bastille Day?"

France only hums in response, which isn't really an answer at all.

But Scotland can feel how proud everyone is, proud to be a part of him, all concentrated in one place and at one time, and it's dizzying. Like being drunk already, maybe, or that old, much-missed feeling of being on a battlefield with all of his troops lined up behind him, their belief in him so powerful that it seemed as though he could take on the entire world at once and win.

"Shit, this is why Ah never usually go oot on St Andrew's Day," he says, because the feeling might be exhilarating, but it can also be _dangerous_. "Ah always end up makin' a complete tit o' maself."

France lifts one eyebrow. "Really?" he says, and there's no inflection to his voice, but Scotland gets the impression he's holding in laughter, nevertheless.

Once he's centred himself again, he feels able to push open the pub's door and step inside to get hit by a wave of noise, instead.

Thankfully, it seems that he isn't too late, because there's a bagpiper on the small stage at the back of the pub, rather than a band. He's not very good – slightly out of tempo and missing almost as many notes as he hits – but Scotland finds himself mouthing the words to '_Scotland the Brave_' along with everyone else as they sing it at the top of their lungs, anyway. His vision is filled with the blue and white of his flag, the red and gold of the Lion Rampant, and the scores of his people crowding the usually sparsely populated pub almost wall to wall, and his grin grows so wide that it's almost painful.

"That's a good look on you," France says, his mouth close to Scotland's ear so he can be heard over the din, his warm breath stirring Scotland's hair and counterintuitively sending a chill shivering down the length of Scotland's spine.

Scotland steps away from him, rubbing at the back of his neck in an effort to chase the unwelcome feeling away as France settles back down on to the flats of his feet.

"Wha–" he manages to spit out before he's grabbed from behind, and the arms which wrap tightly around his chest knock the air from his lungs.

"Aly," James near-screams at him. "We were beginning to think you weren't going to turn up, mate. Duncan's had to work late, and Paul and Ewan's girlfriends dragged them off to some fucking dinner party, so I thought it was just going to be me and Ruth all night."

Scotland struggles free of his friend's over-exuberant embrace, and then quickly turns around before he can grab hold of him again. James' face is flushed deep red, either from the heat of so many bodies packed together or alcohol, and he has a Saltire tied around his shoulders and a stripe of blue dyed in his hair. Scotland hopes for James' sake that Edinburgh Council are forgiving of the latter in the morning.

"Sorry, somethin' cropped up, and, well, Ah got a wee bit delayed," Scotland shouts, gesturing towards France. "This is Francis, by the way."

James steps forwards with his hand outstretched, and then pauses and looks back over his shoulder at Scotland, his mouth dropping open a little.

"Shit, _the_ Francis?" he asks, although Scotland has to deduce the question mostly from the movement of his lips as the sound of it is almost completely swallowed up by the music.

"One an' the same," he confirms.

"Shit," James says again, and instead of shaking France's hand, he pulls him into a hug that looks just as constrictive as the one Scotland's just escaped from. France looks a little shocked – nostrils flaring as his eyes grow wide and round – but he pats James' back a couple of times before he's let go. "Good to meet you at last, mate. We all thought he'd made you up, you know." He looks between Scotland and France, his smile broadening. "So are you guys back together again, then?"

"Naw," Scotland says, quickly. "We're jist here as…"

He doesn't know how to finish the sentence, because he and France aren't really friends, not like he and James, or even he and Wales, are, no matter that Scotland might have classed them as such before, because now they're not together there's… nothing, really. Nothing to replace that. Hell, when it comes down to it, he doesn't know whether they can connect anymore if it's not through sex since it's been so long since that was anything other than the case.

"It's great that you can still be friends, I guess." James fills up the gap with the response that would make the most sense if they were anybody else. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll be glad to know," he says, flinging an arm around Scotland's shoulders, "that I managed to nab us a table earlier before the hordes descended."

* * *

"He isn't how I imagined he'd be, at all," James says to Scotland as they stand at the bar later, waiting to get served.

"He isnae? Whit did ye imagine he'd be like, then?" Scotland asks, honestly curious; it's been a long time since he's had the chance to see the two of them through the eyes of an outsider who hasn't known them both for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

"I don't know," James says, shrugging slightly. "Can't say that I've given it that much thought, but he doesn't really seem like your type."

"Ma type?" Scotland raises his eyebrows questioningly. "Ah dunnae think Ah have one, and if Ah dae, Ah'm sad to say that he's pretty much it. Why do you think he's no' ma type?"

"Jesus, Aly, what's with the twenty questions?" James chuckles. "Again, I don't really know but he seems like a pretty classy sort of guy, and he looks kinda high maintenance, I guess, and you're…" James trails off, frowning.

"A bit rough?" Scotland suggests snippily, a little annoyed by the insinuation.

James snorts. "Naw, that's not it. More like tight as a duck's arse. Just doesn't seem like a good fit, that's all. You know, on first impressions."

Scotland turns away from the bar momentarily to look back at their table. He had been right before: France definitely looks out of place here, with his smart clothes, his perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, surrounded by people who don't even manage to make Scotland look under-dressed in comparison. His posture is cramped and rigid, one leg crossed over the other and arms folded across his chest, as though trying to ensure as little of his body as possible is in contact with his seat, and he's sipping so slowly on first lager James had bought him that Scotland's convinced that it's going to last him all night.

He also hasn't said a word to Scotland since they first sat down, preferring instead to talk almost exclusively to Ruth, and their heads are bent together, foreheads almost touching. They're too far away for Scotland to read their expressions properly, but he guesses they're both still smiling, and both still holding eye contact for longer than is strictly necessary during normal conversation.

James props his elbow on Scotland's shoulder as he too turns to watch Ruth and France. "Does he like –?"

"Aye, Jamsie," Scotland says flatly, "he dis."


	12. Chapter 12

**Later that day**

Now that Scotland has done his duty as a mate and listened to Steve's band – who were better than the bagpiper, but only just – he thinks he'd best get home whilst the going's good and he hasn't done anything to embarrass himself too badly. It's bad enough that he hadn't put up more of a fight when Sarah, Duncan's girlfriend, asked him to dance with her, and had therefore gone on to give everyone in the pub first-hand evidence of his two left feet, but the warm, thick fog that's currently occupying the space where his brain should be is trying to persuade him that it would be a good idea to grab himself some bagpipes and show everyone how they should be played, or else get up on stage and sing one of the ancient Gàidhlig songs that'd have everyone sobbing into their pints by the end of it.

He's surprised, however, that France gets up from his seat and grabs his jacket when Scotland starts to take his leave from James and Sarah, politely but firmly declining their repeated entreaties that he 'just stay for one more'.

"You dunnae need tae leave just because Ah'm goin'," Scotland tells him.

"I know." France meets his eyes steadily. "But I want to."

Before they go, however, France hands his mobile to Ruth, and she taps something into it, presumably her phone number, and after managing to keep a tight hold on them throughout the rest of the night, that gesture is the one that finally loosens the stirrings of jealousy that had been building deep at the back of Scotland's mind.

His feelings must be clear in his face, as France leans in towards him as they walk out of the pub and says, "As I'm sure jou're already aware, she's studying history at university. Apparently, she thinks zhat I have some unique ideas concerning the causes of the Franco-Prussian War, and she'd like to pick my brains on the subject again at a later date."

It's the sort of reassurance that Scotland would have liked to hear at just about any other point in their past, but never received, and he can't understand why France is offering it now, when it shouldn't – doesn't – matter anymore.

* * *

Scotland had been too distracted earlier to notice that France's car was parked outside his house. Usually, he flew whenever he visited Edinburgh, and Scotland would sometimes be expected to pick him up from the airport, even though France always looked mildly offended at the sight of Scotland's ancient Ford Escort and then complained incessantly about Scotland's driving all the while afterwards. Scotland's sure that the fact that he's driven for once means something, but he has no ideas as to what that might be.

There's an overnight bag in the car's boot, Scotland notes – he hopes France has booked himself a hotel room, because he sure as hell isn't going to be spending the night at Scotland's – but although France's hands settle on it first, they don't linger, and he grabs hold of a bottle instead.

"This is for jou," he says, turning around and handing it to Scotland.

Scotland squints down at the label. It's his favourite whisky, which suggests that France had probably been talking to Wales about rather more than just Scotland's whereabouts when he saw him back in September. "Whit's this for?"

"It's a birthday present."

"Thanks, Ah guess, but it's no' ma birthday," Scotland says, slightly bemused. "At least, Ah dunnae _think_ it is. It'd be a fucking amazing coincidence if it wis, right?"

France chuckles. "Just as it would be if the fourteenth of July was actually mine, but it's as close to one as I'm likely to get, as today is for you."

It's a nice gesture, Scotland supposes, albeit a slightly odd one, and he's not sure how to react to it. He and his brothers have never really done much to mark their national days – save for avoiding pubs wherever possible – and they've certainly never exchanged presents on them. Neither have him and France. In fact, he can't even remember the last time France bought him anything.

"Dae ye want a glass?" he asks, simply to be polite, when a more suitable response fails to occur to him. It's nothing more than a pointless pleasantry, really, as France doesn't have much of a taste for spirits and is bound to decline.

The smug curl of France's lips upon hearing the offer, however, gives Scotland the uneasy feeling of having unwittingly walking into some sort of trap, something which only intensifies when France nods and says, "Please."

"Ah suppose we should get inside, then," Scotland says warily, and tries to reassure himself with the knowledge that he's more than capable of slinging France over his shoulder and depositing him right back outside again in the unlikely event that he _does_ have some sort of ulterior motive behind his apparent desire to be invited into Scotland's home.

* * *

Apparently, the _ùruisg_ must have been so disturbed by France's appearance earlier that they've failed to make any headway with the housework, despite the large bowl of milk Scotland had set out to encourage them. Dirty crockery is still piled high in the sink, framed by a spray of cutlery scattered across the draining board, and the worktops are cluttered with empty containers and sticky with spilt tea and lager.

France had started pacing up and down the centre of the room almost as soon as he entered the kitchen, and his expression is, for the most part, carefully neutral, but a slight wrinkle to his brow and purse of his lips betrays distaste, which gives Scotland the impression that his constant movement is due to an unwillingness to stay in one place for too long in case the mess is communicable on contact.

France's own apartment is always spotless, but, then again, Scotland suspects he hires someone to come in and clean for him, whereas Scotland only has a small group of capricious fae, his own two hands, and a housework regimen atrophied by almost three hundred years of living with a brother who cannot abide seeing something out of its designated spot for more than a minute at a time and so could always be counted on to clean up after Scotland, no matter how often, and how vociferously, he might complain about the task otherwise.

Unfortunately, the ùruisg's idleness has left Scotland with only two options for the whisky: a chipped glass with a hair-line crack running through it, and a blue and white mug that had been a Christmas present from Steve the year before and which informed the world that '_Scotsmen Do It With Amazing Grace_'. He pours a generous measure into each, and then contemplates them both for a time, pondering which one France is least likely to turn his nose up at. Eventually, he decides that it's likely to be both and just grabs the first one that comes to hand.

France merely murmurs his thanks as he takes the glass from Scotland, and then drains almost half in a single swallow without even looking at it, wincing afterwards. It makes Scotland think of all the times they have drunk wine together in recent years, and how France always huffs and scowls when Scotland fails to savour whatever vintage he's picked out to his satisfaction. All of France's disapprobation hasn't changed the fact that Scotland's lost his taste for wine over the years although he never refuses it if it's offered, because, at the end of the day, alcohol is alcohol, and Scotland is willing to drink just about anything, especially if it's free.

Whisky, however, is whisky, and so Scotland swirls his mug gently, and then tips it towards his face to inhale the fumes – overwhelmingly smoky with an undertone of vanilla – before he takes a sip. He rolls it around his mouth for a moment, coating his tongue, and it scorches the back of his throat when he eventually swallows it. It also makes his head swim, which is unusual, but something Scotland attributes to the weariness he's felt since they left the pub that already felt like the beginnings of one of his infrequent hangovers, and he suspects has a similar cause.

He closes his eyes momentarily to ride out the feeling, and when he opens them again, he notices that France has stopped his pacing and come to a halt in front of the fridge with his back to Scotland. He appears engrossed by the collection of gaudy magnets stuck there, each one a present from Ireland, who always buys them as souvenirs whenever she visits somewhere outside her country.

Scotland can't help but wonder once again why he wanted to be invited inside, why he's here at all, especially if he's not going to say anything. Reticence has never been something that Scotland's associated with France, and it's unsettling enough, the silence awkward enough, that he's torn between giving the whole encounter up as a bad job and going to bed, and just asking him to get it over with, if France insists on not being forthcoming.

"Why did ye come here?" he asks before he's even consciously aware of having made a decision, his mouth obviously one step ahead of his brain.

France straightens one of the magnets, tapping it lightly with his forefinger, and then his shoulders lift slightly as though taking a deep breath. "I would have thought zhat was obvious," he says.

Frankly, it's not obvious, because Scotland had been expecting a reiteration of everything that France had already told him, asked of him, in various mediums over the past few months, but since that hasn't occurred, he's struggling to find any sense in it. He starts to tell France that, but France interrupts him before he's even finished forming the first syllable.

"Jou were jealous," he says, turning towards Scotland again, "of zhat girl earlier."

If any of Scotland's jealousy had survived France's unprompted explanation for his taking her number earlier, it would have been swept away by the fact that he doesn't even seem to remember her name. "Ruth? Aye, Ah was. Ah still love ye, France, tha' much husnae changed, and Ah've never liked seeing ye flirt wae other people."

Scotland is startled by how easily the words come to his lips now – the ones that he's held on to so tightly through the centuries that he always feared it would rip him two if he ever tried to free them again – so much so that he hadn't even realised he was going to give them voice to it until he did, as though they're something with no more weight than a greeting or a comment on the weather, and that he can drop into conversation just as casually.

"Jou still love me," France says, and Scotland honestly can't tell whether it's supposed to be a question or a simple statement of fact.

It is, however, the first time that France has spoken that word throughout all of this, the first time he's acknowledged Scotland's feelings even if he doesn't return them. Something within Scotland is still urging him to read meaning into everything France has done this evening that he wouldn't normally – the drive, the pub, _this_ – but he ignores it because the reality will doubtless run contrary to any fanciful, hopeful conclusions he could draw as they were most likely no more and no less than the typical spur of the moment decisions that seem to drive so many of France's interactions with him.

"It's only been four months. Whit did ye expect?" Not that four hundred years made much of a difference on that score either, but that's a fact Scotland has the presence of mind to keep to himself. "Anyway, Ah didnae end things because Ah dunnae love ye, Ah ended them because Ah dae. Like Ah told ye before, whit we had wusnae enough, nae matter how hard Ah tried tae convince maself it wis, and, well, it wusnae anywhere near whit Ah wanted fae ye."

"What did jou want?" France asks, his eyes downcast, fixed on the glass of whisky in his hand.

"And Ah would huv thought _that_ wis obvious," Scotland says, snorting derisively. "Come on, surely ye've been in love enough times tae be able tae work that one oot?"

One corner of France's mouth curls upwards slightly. "Indulge me."

Scotland's half-tempted to tell him to fuck off, but the words seem determined to spill themselves, regardless; a century's bitterness lancing itself as he opens his mouth.

"Christ, whit dae people normally want oot o' a relationship?" The question's only partly rhetorical, because he's come to realise that probably the only halfway normal relationship he's ever had was with Jersey, despite their fucked up reasons for starting it. "Tae be wae somebody who doesnae skip oot on them the second they get a better offer, an' then expect them tae take them back when they get bored o' that tae? Spending time wae each other, goin' oot places, doin' things together that dunnae involve sex? No' huvin' tae watch every fuckin' word ye say, every fuckin' action, because yer too scared o' –"

"All right," France says, and even though his voice is quiet, it still derails Scotland's train of thought, and he has to backtrack through what he'd said to try and make sense of the interjection.

"All right, whit?" Scotland asks, confused, when he can't.

"All right," France repeats, firmer this time, and he raises his head to meet Scotland's eyes. "We can try zhat, if zhat's what jou want."

And that, Scotland thinks, could only possibly make the sense it seems to if it were anyone other than France saying it. "Are you askin' me out?" he asks incredulously.

France's half-smile becomes a full one, and he laughs a little. "I suppose I am, _oui_."

Scotland thinks he should be happy, ecstatic even, but he isn't, because, really, he's not sure that this actually sounds any better than what they had before, despite how it appears on the surface.

"Is it whit ye want, France?" he asks, because France giving him this begrudgingly, perhaps in an effort to keep Scotland where he's always expected him to be, isn't something Scotland can accept, either.

"_Oui_." The answer is swift, determined, and Scotland can almost believe it's true; wants to believe it's true, but after this last hundred years of near apathy on France's part, it seems impossible. "I suppose I should thank jou for giving me zhe time I needed to realise zhat."

That can't be all there is to it, Scotland thinks, it can't, because France has had longer to mull it over before, much longer, and he's never even come close to this conclusion as far as Scotland can tell. He sounds genuine enough, though, and…

And Scotland's head is _spinning_ now, the weariness seeping down to his bones, making his hands tremble so that the whisky sloshes around in its mug. He puts it down carefully on the countertop, and then rubs at his eyes, which seem unable to stay focused. The entire situation feels strange, almost surreal, and far more than Scotland can hope to handle with his mind still slightly fogged by alcohol and his earlier euphoria.

"Ah think," he says, slowly, "Ah should go tae bed." He shakes his head when France takes a step towards him. "On ma own. Ye kin take the sofa, or the spare bed, whichever takes yer fancy. Ye know where the clean sheets are, aye?"

France catches hold of Scotland's hand as he turns away, links their fingers together and squeezes gently. His palm is a little damp, which Scotland would have attributed to nerves if he thought France could ever have believed he had anything to be nervous about. "Jou didn't give me an answer," he says.

Scotland almost wants to say, 'I'll think about it', or 'let me sleep on it' but that wouldn't be anything more than pointless delaying tactics, because what France is offering is something Scotland's wanted for the best part of a millennium, and he knows he'd regret it forever if he didn't at least give France the chance to prove that he's serious, that he's willing to change. If it turns out that France is stringing him along, that he can't live up to what he's just promised, then Scotland knows now that he can walk away and survive it afterwards, and, hell, he thinks it would be an even easier decision to make next time if that were the case.

He wants to take things slowly this time, test France's limits before he commits himself to this fully again, but there's slow and then there's glacial.

"Aye," he says.

* * *

**1st December, 2009; Edinburgh**

"France, yer gonnae need tae get a move on if ye want tae get back home before midnight," Scotland shouts as he walks out of his kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. It's instant, but France will just have to like it or lump it because Scotland ran out of his poncey tea some time ago and hadn't thought he'd have a reason to restock it any time soon. "Ye'll be hitting rush hour in London at this rate, and –"

Scotland is assailed by a strong sense of déjà vu as he steps into the lounge, and he swallows down the rest of his words so hard that it triggers a coughing fit, because in place of Wales wearing disgustingly skimpy shorts, there's France, wearing nothing but an equally skimpy towel, tucked around his waist.

"Jesus Christ," he splutters, slamming the coffee down on the nearest available flat surface before he manages to spill it all over himself. He scrambles madly for something coherent to say, but all he can manage is a choked, "Shit."

"Are you all right, mon cher?" France asks, and even though he doesn't look away from the mantelpiece, Scotland can still tell that he's smirking. There's definitely a certain smug quality to his voice that suggests he's taking a great deal of pleasure from Scotland's discomposure.

"Ah'm guid," Scotland says, watching a droplet of water sliding slowly between France's shoulderblades and then down the valley of his spine to be caught by the tiny, tiny towel. "Grand. Look, Ah understand that Ah probably wusnae at ma most eloquent last night, but Ah still think Ah wis pretty clear aboot wantin' tae take things slowly, an' standing aroon in jist –" Scotland realises he's still staring at the towel, and hurriedly moves his gaze upwards again – "_that_ dusnae really fit ma definition o' slowly."

"I've just got out of zhe shower," France says, as though that's a perfectly reasonable explanation for him standing around practically naked in Scotland's lounge, despite the fact that Scotland's shower's in the bathroom right next to the spare bedroom where France's overnight bag, and, more importantly, his clothes are.

Scotland's about to point that out, and chivvy him back upstairs again, when he notices that France is shivering almost imperceptibly. "Fucking hell, even Ah think it's a bit nippy today, ye must be bloody freezin'."

He's closed the gap between them and reached out with the intention of rubbing some warmth back into France's goosebump-covered arms before he realises his mistake. France sinks back against his chest as soon as Scotland touches him, head tucked neatly under Scotland's chin.

"Yer completely impossible," Scotland tells him, and then tells himself that he's merely sharing body heat as he slips his arms around France's waist.

He's not particularly convincing.

France sighs quietly – a soft, contented sort of noise that Scotland hasn't heard him make for a long time, and that makes his heart squeeze a little painfully – before saying, "Jou didn't read zhe letters I sent."

"Should Ah huv done?"

"I wrote jou poetry," France says, a little stiffly.

"Ye did?" Scotland tries to hold back, but the urge to laugh is too strong. Again, it's a nice gesture – better than nice, in fact, and Scotland will make sure to set aside some time to actually read the letters at the earliest possible opportunity, provided France doesn't destroy them first in a fit of pique – but nowadays his mind always leaps to Wales at the mention of poetry, and the shitty verses he inflicts on Scotland every year at Christmas in lieu of a decent present and tries to pass off as meaningful. "Why?"

"I thought jou might appreciate it, but it seems…" France trails into silence as he spins around to glare at Scotland. He blinks slowly a few times, and then asks, "What are jou wearing?"

"A jumper?" Scotland ventures.

"Zhat is _not_ a _jumper_, zhat is," France's eyelids flutter shut, as though he can't bear to look at it for a moment longer, "an eyesore."

"Hey, it wis a present," Scotland says, feeling defensive on New Zealand's behalf. He supposes that it's a rather vivid shade of yellow, and the red Lion on the front looks a little less Rampant and more like roadkill – and possibly also a squirrel – but it's thick, warm, and a lot less misshapen than New Zealand's usual efforts.

"That does not change the fact zhat it's hideous, and zhat jou should take it off. Right now."

Scotland finds himself letting go of France and reaching automatically for the bottom of the jumper before he stops himself. Not even twelve hours, and France is trying to make the changes to his wardrobe that Scotland had assured Jersey that he didn't care about these days. "Ah'm beginnin' tae think that Ah dreamt oor entire conversation last night, because Ah'm sure we talked about things like compromise an' how Ah'm no' gonnae jump every time ye fuckin' clap anymore."

One of France's eyes opens a crack. "Fine," he says, sharply. "What do I have to do so zhat jou'll take off zhe jumper?"

Scotland can think of many things he could suggest in response to that, but most of them aren't appropriate to their situation as it stands at the moment. Slow, he reminds himself. Slow. And it's no doubt best to start small, anyway. "Ye could always come over an' visit me again next week; ye know, when ye dunnae need tae rush back. Spend the weekend, maybe?"

France says, "Okay," before Scotland has even finished speaking, and then makes a hurrying gesture with one hand. Scotland grins, and pulls the jumper off over his head, static crackling through his hair, then balls it up and throws it into the corner of the room.

France has closed his eyes again.

"Whit's the matter noo?" Scotland asks him.

"The T-shirt too, Scotland," France says, sounding pained.

"Ah dunnae see whit's wrong wae it," Scotland mutters, staring down at the cracked, peeling transfer of the cartoon Loch Ness monster on the front of the T-shirt. But, then again, he's not particularly attached to any of the clothes, and the opportunity to see how far France is willing to go, how committed he is to this, is too great a one to pass up. "So, next weekend, when yer over, we're goin' tae go tae the pub again so ye kin meet the rest o' ma mates."

Frances grimaces slightly, but he nods, nevertheless. By the time Scotland has stripped off his T-shirt, however, and turned back to face him, France is smirking again, and although they're hooded, his eyes are definitely both open.

"And what," he almost purrs, "about zhe trousers?" He rests his fingers lightly against the waistband of Scotland's jeans, carefully not touching his skin, although it heats as though he is, regardless, sending a flush racing up the centre of Scotland's chest.

Scotland's skating on thin ice now, because, Jesus, all of his presentable underwear is in the wash basket so he's wearing _Y-fronts_, and he should step back now before France has a chance of seeing them, but his curiosity eggs him on. He can always ask for something that France would likely rather die than agree to usually, anyway. "Well," he says, voice shaking a little. "England's huvin' this party on Boxin' Day…"


End file.
